Survivors of Fortune
by Sabari
Summary: After surviving Onithera, the soldiers of Fortune find themselves on a new planet, with new challenges, and a new sergeant. Sometimes the worst devil is that which comes from within, which is the devil we are prepared to face least of all. Inadvertently AU, non-slash/non-pairing.
1. TEMMIE

**_A/N: This story is the long overdue sequel to "Lost Fortune", and is best read after having read the first, despite my efforts to make it stand alone. After over a year of working on this story, countless rewrites and a number of flat restarts, several revisions and a long hiatus, I can't say that I'm well pleased with this, the result of all that time and effort. But I can say for a fact that it was the best I could do._**

 ** _As usual, I'm going to say this story is probably AU (more and more all the time)._** ** _As always, this story is completely written. As per usual, I will upload one chapter per day (Barring anything out of the ordinary. I will attempt to give readers a head's up via A/N). This was written for my entertainment, and is being published for yours. If you find yourself not enjoying it, then you should feel perfectly free to stop reading. Heap praise or criticism upon it, whichever may suit you best. Or say nothing about it at all, if you would prefer. Do feel free to point out typos, I check my stories before publishing, but I admit my imperfection and would welcome the opportunity to correct any mistakes I may have made._**

 ** _Enjoy._**

* * *

" _The only thing you can count on is that people will do anything to survive..."_

* * *

Some people love their work. They wake up every day simply delighted to be alive and able to continue doing what they absolutely love to do. But some people are just very, very good at their work. Some might even say exceptionally gifted. But contrary to what the people who love their work will tell you, you don't have to enjoy your gift, or your work for that matter. In the end, all that anyone really cares about is that it gets done. And, in the case of troopers in the Grand Army of the Republic, that it gets done right. PFC Caden was one such trooper. Whether or not he loved his work wasn't particularly relevant. What mattered, what _really_ mattered, was that he was damned good at what he did.

Easing slowly forward, a single carefully placed step at a time, trusting the gray-black night sky to hide him from sight, the knee deep mud to keep his sounds to a minimum, and the planet's prolific algae to conceal his scent, Caden was in the process of doing the work he'd been born to do.

The steady thrum of a thousand insectile wings didn't distract him, nor did the clouding of his visor as the tiny black, mosquito-like bugs pinged off his armor, which was coated in a slick brownish-green layer of algae that rendered him practically invisible even in broad daylight. It was there because, aside from its obvious benefits, he couldn't scrape it off long enough for it to be worth the effort.

Caden knew that, if he wasn't careful, each step could be his last. Even in daylight, the mud was covered in a layer of murky water, and it was impossible to determine safe ground from hazardous without first prodding it.

Lifting his right boot clear of the mud took effort, but Caden was patient about it. Far as he was concerned, he had all the time in the world. He kept his eyes looking ahead, searching the darkness for the target that he knew was there. He let his leg sink to the knee, finding a bit of solid under the muck before shifting his weight to that foot and repeating the process with his other foot.

Each time his lungs expanded, it felt more like he was drinking the air than breathing it, and he was uncomfortably aware of how much that limited his stamina. When even breathing felt like exercise, you knew you had to be not just good, but perfect at your work if you were going to survive.

Caden wasn't worried. He knew just how good he was. And he wasn't afraid to bet not only his life, but also his best friend's life, on his skill. Which is exactly what he was doing now.

A low, sort of coughing hiss followed by a tick-tick-tick sound told him he'd found what he was looking for. More importantly, it had noticed his presence. He didn't bother to ask how. The uncertain clicking that followed the threat sound indicated that it didn't know where he was, just that he was there. The problem was, he wasn't sure where it was either, which meant he had no advantage in that department. Now his target knew he was there, it was only a matter of who found whom first.

Caden wasn't hunting droids. Not here. Here, there was an even bigger threat. At first it had simply been called the Clone Killer or Slayer. But then the clones had discovered what it did after killing them. It then became the Trooper Eating Monster. In the interest of efficiency, that had been shortened to TEM. Familiarization had turned it into Temmie. In any case, it was big, it was fast, and it wanted Caden and his brothers for dinner. It was Caden's job to find it first. Find it, and kill it.

The threat sound repeated, louder this time.

 _Temmie's getting agitated,_ Caden thought.

He saw a flicker of movement in the stilt roots of the trees about a hundred and fifty yards to his right. That was his partner, moving in tandem with him. The objective was to come from two different sides. Caden was hearing the hissing ahead and slightly to his right, the second hiss had confirmed it. His partner would be going around to the other side of the sound. And then they would close in. Hopefully, this would be over before the Temmie got really angry.

Furious animals were so much more difficult to deal with than mildly irritated or alarmed animals. Caden wasn't even sure Temmie had an alarm call. If it did, Caden had never heard it.

When the Temmie had first come upon the base camp, there had been no warning. It had found the sentry on the Eastern side of the camp. There had been no body to find. Now they knew why. Doubling the security around the camp had been essential. This posting was meant to be a safe landing site for sending in more men and equipment. It was far back from where the lines were drawn in the mud, but sentries were still alert for any Separatists sneaking behind the lines to try and take down the outposts. But they hadn't been prepared for the wildlife to be trying to kill them.

Initially, Caden had theorized that they were in Temmie's territory and it merely wanted to drive them away. That was before they'd doubled the sentry teams and had witnesses saying that the Temmie was eating their brothers. Caden knew that animals fighting over territory seldom ate their adversaries, but rather left them for scavengers. Temmie wasn't being territorial, it wasn't defending young. It was hunting. And that was a whole other game. One few clones knew how to play. They weren't trained to deal with threats of that kind. Droids were their designed adversaries, and Temmie bore little to no resemblance to those.

But Caden, along with his fireteam and the squad it belonged to, had special experience in these matters. He'd convinced his lieutenant to let the squad ( _Fortune Actual_ ) handle it.

They had already tried discouraging the Temmie through the use of trip wires and even flash-bangs. But it didn't write the post off as too dangerous to be worth the trouble. It seemed like all they'd done was make it angry, in addition to being its being hungry. It had been coming at them more and more frequently. But tonight, Caden intended to finally end it. If the creature wouldn't take a hint, he was willing to fight it on the terms it had set. To the death. Preferably its own.

This time, there would be no warning shots. No grenades thrown in the blind hope of hitting the animal in the dark. No missing, no hitting it where it must be shelled or otherwise armor plated; no previous hits had killed it. Tonight, Caden was going to get up close and personal, find its weak spot, and shoot it. Repeatedly if necessary. Temmie had killed its last trooper.

Something shot out of the darkness from above. Caden felt it more than saw it and rolled instinctively to the side. The mud slowed him down. An enormous barb punctured his armor at the thigh, its sharpened end cut into the skin of his leg. The barb was attached to a spidery leg, which began to withdraw, dragging Caden with it. He yelped as the barb dug its way into his flesh.

A high pitched roar answered him, and a dark shape came racing out of the dark. The onrushing creature ran on four legs at first, but once it hit its stride, it tucked its forelegs and skimmed along the ground on its hind legs. A long, stiff tail balanced the weight of its body. An S-shaped neck tucked to its shoulders carried an almost wolfish head equipped with a beak which was serrated at the edges. Instead of fur or scales, the animal had dark gray-black feathering, except on the leathery wings which it now spread to lend itself the illusion of size and increased its speed. It stood about three feet high bent over as it was, and weighed around a hundred pounds. Its wings weren't powerful enough to let it fly but when it leaped for its target, they gave it greater thrust.

This was Caden's partner, an Onitheran. Armor like that of a GAR trooper's, but reshaped to fit him, covered his skull, the back of his neck, and his back and sides around the wings, as well as his flanks. Theran was his name, and Caden had raised him from a chick. Theran had never forgotten. Even now, he was far from fully grown. An adult Onitheran could reach eight hundred pounds or more. However, what he lacked in size, Theran made up for in speed, agility and strength. He had twice the speed Caden could manage, three times the power, and the agility was so far above Caden it couldn't even be compared. When he jumped, he hit the target he aimed for.

Theran hit the Temmie in the head, his clawed fingers curling around the base of the creature's skull, pulling him in close under its jaw, his long claws sinking in deep. Those claws were strong and sharp enough to cut through bone. His hind claws raked down his adversary's exposed throat, his wings beat at its face, disorienting it.

The barbed leg ripped free of Caden and swung in the air. Caden looked up, seeing that the creature towered over him. Even as he moved, he estimated it was about ten feet high. The legs it stood on were absurdly short and squat, with wide webbed feet. The spidery legs were actually more like arms. Four of them flailed wildly in the air, trying to get hold of Theran, who hissed and snapped at them with his powerful jaws, finally catching one and holding it while violently shaking his head side to side, shredding and crunching the exoskeleton.

Caden knew it was time to make his own move. He slid in towards the body of the Temmie. It was insect-like in that it had its skeleton on the outside, which explained why no shots had killed it. Caden found a space between sections at the joint of one of the spider legs where they met the creature's chest.

Jamming the muzzle of his blaster into the space, Caden fired.

A shrieking roar said he'd finally found a soft spot.

The animal reeled backwards, one of its legs struck Caden hard, sending him spinning. Caden hit the mud just as Theran lunged clear, blood dripping from his jaws. Theran crouched between Caden and the behemoth, snarling in fury, prepared to go on the attack again if needed.

The Temmie shrieked, roared, stumbled into a tree. Branches snapped under its weight and it tumbled onto its side with a thud, hissing its last as its massive head began to sink into the swamp.

Caden got up, favoring his injured leg. He was cut, bruised, but otherwise unharmed.

At last, he got to get a close look at the creature that had been terrorizing his platoon for weeks.

It had been roughly ten feet high in life, standing on two large, flat, round, webbed feet. Two pairs of spidery legs with sharp barbs on the ends obviously served as its primary weapons. The lower jaw split and opened sideways and downward, revealing a mouth full of hundreds of yellowish spikes. Multifaceted black eyes stared vacantly at the gray night sky. The mouth hardware told Caden all he needed to know. This was either a fisher or worm eater. Either way, he couldn't see why it had suddenly decided that troopers were on the menu.

Theran parted his jaws and chirped one of the handful of words he knew, "Dead?"

"Very," Caden replied, kneeling beside the creature to examine its mouth more closely, appreciating the efficiency of the design and finally understanding how so many had been caught unaware.

You didn't see those legs until it was too late. The barbs prevented premature escape once you were speared, and then you were fed into a mouth designed to swallow things whole.

Theran twitched his head and pointed his muzzle slightly downward, "Hurt?"

Caden glanced at his leg wound, which Theran was studying intently through black, reptilian eyes.

"Not bad. Just a scratch."

Theran relaxed and rubbed his muzzle against Caden's right arm, making an affectionate cooing sound, which contrasted sharply with his earlier roar of fury. He then proceeded to nibble at the edges of the armor, which Caden understood to be a grooming gesture, intended to strengthen the bond between parent and offspring. Theran had eventually come to understand that Caden wasn't really his mother, but seemed to regard his adoptive parent with fierce adoration in spite of that. Or maybe because of it.

Caden keyed his radio and spoke into it, "This is Caden. Sentry Station Bravo has been secured."

" _The Temmie?"_ came the stiff sounding reply.

"Threat is neutralized. No casualties on our end. Returning to post."

" _Roger that. Good job, Bravo station."_

Caden merely keyed his radio in response. Cautiously, he got to his feet. His leg was sore, but it supported his weight. He'd get it cleaned and bandaged when he came off duty.

Theran continued cooing and making little cricket chirps, rubbing his head against Caden and batting at him gently with one of his black wings.

"Yeah, yeah, you did good too," Caden muttered, shoving the muzzle away so it wouldn't throw him off balance, then he added more kindly, "Thanks. You saved my life, Theran."

"Fortune," Theran responded, the single word conveying everything.

 _Fortune goes with us. Actual survives._

Caden knew what it meant. Together, they had saved each other. Theran wasn't keeping score, and neither was he. Neither of them owed the other any special favors. But, because they were friends, family even, each would offer everything he had for the other. Together, they continued to survive. In Caden's mind, _that_ was all that mattered.


	2. Morassis

Sergeant Rafe hadn't expected the pick of available squads to be transferred into when he got promoted, but it seemed a bit cruel to give him the one infamous for being completely impossible.

The team leader from fireteam one -PFC Caden- was known for his silver tongue, having once convinced the GAR to let him keep a wild animal from Onithera; not as a pet, but as a member of the squad. It was close enough to a Jedi mind trick that nobody trusted the bastard as far as they could throw him, which wasn't far since the aforementioned Onitheran creature would savage anyone who laid so much as a finger on his master.

Fireteam one, also known as _Fortune_ , had another oddball, a guy they called Private Phisher, who wasn't even a clone at all. Theran was considered a member of this fireteam as well. Rounding it out was an astoundingly ordinary fellow called Onoff, and somehow he managed to be the most unsettling member of the fireteam just because he was so completely... well... normal in comparison to the others.

The leader of fireteam two -Corporal Volk- was reputed to be every bit as feral as the Onitheran. He was said to be ruthless and endlessly bad tempered and without even an iota of respect for the chain of command. He would just as soon kill you as look at you, and was just as likely to bite you as Theran himself was.

The rest of fireteam two, _Actual_ , was a mechanic with medical experience -Private Doc-, a standoffish and particularly unpredictable clone -PFC Garm- and a rather nondescript kid who by all appearances suffered from ADD or something similar. That was Private Damyu.

Staring at the lineup of... well, he supposed he couldn't entirely say men as one of them was most assuredly _not_ a man... but whatever they were, they stood in formation, stiffly at attention, riveted to the spot as any clones ought to be on meeting their new sergeant, and yet... he sensed they were not bound by any word from him.

He cast his gaze on Corporal Volk, who had been the acting squad sergeant for some time now. The squad had needed a sergeant ever since the end of their posting on Onithera, but there hadn't been one available. And too, there was Caden to consider. He had argued vigorously in place of Volk, claiming the squad already had a leader, and that he would return for them. They didn't need another.

It wasn't true, and yet Rafe could tell that it was not Volk who held sway over the squad. He was the bearer of their orders, but was not their master any more than the lead dog in a sled team is master of the others. He led the pack, but it was at the behest of his master.

Rafe wondered if Volk understood that Tavis was never coming back, that he was almost assuredly dead, that at the very least no member of _Fortune Actual_ would ever see him again and, even if they did, he would never again lead them.

Hell, that monster would never lead anyone. Never again.

Better he died than lived, but that was not for Rafe to decide.

* * *

Water didn't so much rain from the clouds as plunge downward like a skydiver without a parachute, hitting the ground at terminal velocity and shattering into myriad crystal fragments that bounced and flew as if they intended to return to their point of origin, only to be hammered back into the hard dirt by relentless gravity which slammed them, crushed them into the mud and there beat them into submission with yet more droplets of stinging cold rain, the icy wind whipping until the storm itself seemed to howl with pain.

You might expect a planet whose surface is eighty-five percent water to appear blue from space. You'd be wrong. Morassis was no ocean world, but was instead a marsh planet. The water was mostly brown, or brownish green. In a few scattered areas the water was clear enough to see to the bottom, but these areas were few and far between. It was a planet dominated by algae, more varieties of which could be found there than on any other single planet in the galaxy. Coming in every imaginable color, the algae also could be anywhere from deadly toxin to serving medicinal purposes almost on the scale of miracle cures. It grew on absolutely everything, including much of the wildlife of the world. From green slime found on rocks to free flowing seaweed, algae was everywhere. In many places, even the land area was damp enough for algae to survive and even thrive. And the clones' armor seemed to be prime real estate, insofar as the more successful varieties of algae were concerned.

At its core, the weather had two conditions: Raining, and About to Rain. But there were a thousand different kinds of rain. Rain with thunder and lightning, pounding rain that seemed to be trying to knock you down with sheer velocity, pouring rain that soaked you through all in an instant, humid rain where the air felt like it was made of liquid you could drown in, misting rain that lowered visibility, stinging rain with small droplets fired like bullets from the clouds, and a plethora of others.

By the same token, the entire planet being a wetland didn't mean every bit of it was the same. Far from it. There were river networks, marshes, bog forests where tall trees provided the illusion of land (and someday might also bring it to reality as silt, dirt and seaweed became caught in the tree roots and slowly formed a decomposing soil), mires where the water was thick as mud and twice as dangerous, quicksand swamps where a single misstep would find you sinking to your neck in mud and swamp water in a moment, semi-stable fens and dangerous flood plains. Water depth ranged from a few inches to hundreds of feet deep, sometimes the line between the two was paper thin.

Here, the mud was cold as ice and just as hard.

Time had done to PFC Tavis what heat, hunger and mere weariness could not. In surviving the trial by fire that had been Onithera, Tavis had cursed himself to lose everything that he held dear. The family that he'd become a part of there was gone now, gone perhaps forever.

He did not know what had become of _Fortune Actual_ , but he feared for them every day. Volk, who was charged with their care, would do everything in his power to guard them from harm. But he was a creature of habit and impulse, of implacable rage and indomitable spirit, and quiet, desperate fear. He was of a type that belonged to the wild, and perhaps it would have been better if he'd been left there.

Arriving on Onithera, Volk had been too much of what the GAR wanted, but he had left too much of his old self behind, and now he was only a little of what he had been, and very much something different. Tavis knew and understood this change in him, but the GAR would not. Tavis feared the GAR would destroy Volk and, in turn, all of _Fortune_.

Tavis had been their leader, but the severe illness given him by those who had abandoned him to the whims of Onithera had taken its toll, and time was what it had wanted of him. Time had meant his squad was reassigned without him, that he was sent somewhere they could not reach him. Time had taken from them their link to what they had been, and he feared they would die for it.

He had no hope of ever seeing them again.

Time had also taken from him something precious, back on Onithera. It had taken from him his love for the GAR, devotion to the Republic, and even stifled his loathing of the Separatists and their droids. His natural submission and obedience was all but gone, but it failed to make him strong enough, because the absence of loyalty to the Grand Army was just that, and there was nothing to fill the void. There was only one thing he cared about now, and it was gone forever.

He didn't defend himself from the attacks of other clones because, quite frankly, he didn't care anymore. Not really. Not without _Fortune Actual_. Without them, nothing mattered.

Though he was not injured, Tavis walked with a pronounced limp. The cold, fog shrouded air awakened old pains, bringing a familiar ache to scars that would never heal. His muscles throbbed not only because of the weather, but also reminding him with every step just how far he had walked, how hard he'd fought, what he had lost even in getting to this place God seemed to have forsaken.

He was not alone.

Tavis perceived the threat too late to dodge or block the hit when it came at him through the darkness and the rain. He hit the ground hard enough to knock the breath from his body. It came from him in a cloud as star burst patterns exploded in front of his eyes and pain spread in a spiderweb across his upper back where he'd hit the rock hard ground.

"You son of a bitch!"

He didn't dodge the next hit either, though his hands instinctively flew to his face in spite of the fact that his helmet was more than adequate protection for the assault.

The other clone knelt, straddling him, grabbing him by the collar and punching futilely at his helmet with the other, cursing him. Tavis formulated no response, but just lay there and took it. He was used to it. He knew why his brothers felt the way they did, and he could hardly blame them. Any clone catching him alone or seeing him for the first time, assuming they knew who he was, wanted to crack his skull. Fortunately, it made a lot of noise, and they weren't alone for long.

All up and down the supply depot, clones came out to see what the commotion was, though most of them weren't interested in doing a damn thing about it. The exception was Lieutenant Oscar.

"Ferris! Stand down!" Oscar's voice carried from yards away, his command had the impact of a hammer blow on Corporal Ferris, who froze where he was, still clutching Tavis' armor.

Behind the helmet, Ferris' eyes blazed, and Tavis could practically feel the hate radiating off of him. Ferris wanted to kill him, and was stayed only by his strict adherence to the chain of command, a tether stronger even than the substance of his raising. But it was such a thin chain, and Ferris was choking on it. If he'd started to gag like a dog straining at a leash, Tavis wouldn't have been surprised.

"Get up!" Oscar snarled once he was in close proximity.

Ferris haltingly let go of Tavis and slowly drew himself to his full height. He stood over Tavis, reluctant to fully relinquish his prize. Tavis remained on the ground in the mud, the iced rain running across the algae darkened surface of his armor in flooding rivers. His breath came hard in the cold air, and the bruising impact of his body on the ground didn't help either.

"What seems to be your problem?" Oscar demanded.

He'd come from the tent that served as his office on the double, hadn't even taken the time to put on his helmet. But he didn't even react to the icy rain snapping against his head and neck, didn't so much as blink as it ran down his face. Like he was immune to it. He looked at Ferris only, as if Tavis wasn't there. Tavis knew full well that if Oscar hadn't been such a by the book guy, he'd have killed Tavis himself.

"Nothin'," Ferris spat after a beat, "Not a thing, sir. Just screwin' around."

He stepped off Tavis, trying in vain to hide the disgust in his bearing as he did so.

"Well screw around some place else," Oscar told him, jerking his head to the left, "Go find something to do with yourself. Something useful."

Ferris moved off, and the gathered crowd dispersed almost instantly. When it came to incidents of this nature, clones gathered fast, but the party ended just as rapidly. Nobody wanted to be the next target for Oscar, who was now in a mood as dark as the storm raging overhead.

"Look, moron," Oscar said, turning towards Tavis, who was still on the ground, "If you had an ounce of decency anywhere inside of you, you'd finish this before I have to seriously punish somebody for doing what comes natural. In their eyes, you're a traitor, and nobody can see for a second why the GAR wouldn't just shoot your sorry ass. I sure as hell don't. But it's my job to keep the order in this place. You're disrupting that."

Tavis cocked his head. Oscar had just asked him to kill himself before somebody else did. And they would. Given half a chance, Tavis' brothers were all but ready to tear him apart. Of course, whoever gave in to that urge would be ending his own future as well. You couldn't keep clones who were willing to kill each other without orders. You had to get rid of them. Permanently.

"But you haven't got a conscience, have you? You're nothing but an animal, not worth the price of shooting. So get up. And go on back to your squad," Oscar growled.

Tavis stared at him for a long moment. Then, very slowly, he rolled over, and gradually got to his feet, never once taking his eyes off of Oscar, half convinced the LT would take a shot at him now nobody was watching.

"Lieutenant," Tavis sighed wearily, "you and I both know I'm a helluva long way from the only squad I've ever belonged to. Even I can't walk that far. Believe me, I would if I could."

"I don't care what the hell you do, just as long as you don't drag us down with you," Oscar spat, "Now go find a place to clean up your armor. It looks like crap."

Tavis hesitated for a beat. He wanted to say something.

Oscar was a good man. He did right by his men, cared about them like he was their father. He was a good leader, come to that. He was only looking out for his men, responding to a perceived threat in the only way he could. Like the rest of them, he had no idea what the truth was. That truth began on a planet a long way from here, called Onithera. Oscar had never been there, probably never would go there. He didn't know what had happened to Tavis there, or the hell that had followed.

Tavis couldn't tell him. Even if Oscar believed him, and that was a truly massive IF, all it would do was put the man in danger. Not the proper kind, either. Clones were soldiers, danger was their thing. But the danger was supposed to come from outside the GAR, not from within. Separatists, not members of the Republic, were supposed to be the threat to a clone's life.

So Tavis said the only thing he could, because he couldn't stop himself. Oscar deserved better. He should know, but couldn't know, so Tavis told him the one thing he could, even though he knew it wasn't going to make a damn bit of difference.

"I'm not the monster in the story, Lieutenant."

"Then what the hell are you?" Oscar asked dryly.

"The victim."

Oscar didn't believe him. Tavis didn't expect him to.

But that didn't mean it wasn't the truth.


	3. Special Delivery

Corporal Bean was a pilot. And a damn good one at that. Everyone knew it too. Even Bean knew he was the best at what he did and, though he did not boast his talents, he was willing to punch anyone who suggested he wasn't any good. Bean did not often have to defend himself these days, his achievements spoke for themselves and made it possible to overlook the fact that he was an inch shorter than every other clone in the GAR.

But Bean had started his training as a ground trooper. In those days, he was a subject for mockery, the cruelty of children and subsequent savagery of adolescents had very nearly ended both his career and his life. His transfer to piloting had been born of necessity. It turned out that he excelled at it, even though the initial testing had suggested he would never make a halfway decent pilot.

He could have made it into space combat, but he was good enough to have one of the most difficult jobs the military had to offer: flying "lartys" into combat zones, carrying and depositing troopers on the ground at the front lines, as well as retrieving them (sometimes while the area was still "hot"). Every trooper who'd been carried up or down by a craft Bean piloted would have attested to his exceptional skill as well as consideration for his passengers.

He'd refused orders only once in his life, and it had turned out those orders were issued very much in error. He was thus spared execution, but had been transferred. He now served under Anakin Skywalker, though he seldom saw the Jedi or even Captain Rex.

Bean was used to being shot at. He was even used to dodging stray shots meant for someone else. But he was not used to being hit by those shots. Especially not when those shots were being fired by people on his side. For this reason, he was almost tempted to shoot back when the stray caught the underside of his airship and caused it to buck and lurch to the right off course.

It was perhaps a good thing that he had only two gunners and was too busy trying not to fall out of the sky to take any vengeance on the troopers below who'd somehow hit him instead of the Separatists just uphill from their position. Even better was that the Separatists mistook him for reinforcements and started shooting at the aircraft instead of the ground troopers. This gave the troopers an opportunity to advance, and Bean a reason to keep going, still listing to the right.

" _Pilot, we've got smoke on the port side. I can't tell where it's coming from,"_ the gunner positioned on the left side of the larty announced, _"Sounds like one of our engines may be dying."_

"I'm the pilot and I say that engine isn't dying, it's already dead," Bean spat, "How bad is the smoke?"

" _I can't see shit behind me,"_ reported the gunner.

Bean didn't reply to that, the craft shuddered and hopped sideways in the air, forcing him to focus on his flying. He was too low, too close to the trees, and weaving towards a ridge of hills on the right. He was trying to compensate for the lost engine, but the controls were sluggish and reluctant to do his bidding. The GPS readout was on the fritz, and sparks were coming from that panel.

"Co-pilot, radio the outpost," Bean ordered.

The co-pilot was a corporal and outranked him in seniority, but not while Bean was flying this tub. So long as he was the pilot, Bean was calling the shots. A pilot was trained to protect his cargo at any cost, to do everything in his power to ensure that the cargo reached the ground undamaged. And they weren't carrying just any cargo.

"What do I tell them?" the co-pilot asked, his voice bordering on the hysterical, "I've got no reading on where we are. All I know is we're off course to the right."

"Well, CP, looks like we're gonna crash right now," Bean said in a matter of fact tone.

Already he was looking for a spot to touch down. From the ground, Morassis looked mostly flat and squishy. But, from above, it was full of jagged rock formations, uneven hills and trees and patches of deep water, and very, very few places you could land without fear of puncturing something important and subsequently dying in a fiery explosion as your aircraft burst into flames.

Lartys were well armored, but they had weak spots, and landing on those jagged rocks or a copse of trees was bound to reveal those particular weaknesses, generally by a tree ripping into the interior and impaling one or more of the troopers inside the aircraft.

"No, seriously," the co-pilot yelled over the surviving engine, which was now screaming, "What am I supposed to tell them?!"

"Looks like we're gonna crash... and die," Bean replied.

A coughing, spluttering noise drew his attention. The gunner's report had been accurate after all, the port engine wasn't entirely dead. Yet. He could make use of that. It took every bit of skill at his disposal to force the larty upward, just enough to slide over the top of the ridge. For a moment, it looked like they might even manage to level off and make it to a safe landing zone, assuming they could find one.

Then the aircraft was jolted sharply from the left. Glancing down to the side, Bean saw a Separatist speeder swooping away and then arcing back. They were going for his starboard side gunner.

 _"Pilot... I uh... I think they're coming back,"_ said the gunner.

Bean didn't answer, busy sending instructions to the larty. It turned sharply at his behest, so tightly in fact that the craft almost went belly up. When the the next shot hit, it pinged the roof, but the blow was glancing and the gunner unscathed. But Bean had overreached his craft's abilities. The damaged engine coughed, choked and finally died. Unable to right itself, the craft spun, turning entirely upside down.

Bean's earpiece filled with screams of terror and shock as the larty spun towards the ground, diving nose first. Someone was yelling at him to 'pull up' and there was a maddening buzzing coming from somewhere. As the craft spun, Bean caught sight of the outpost, not far away. But, perhaps, too far.

The aircraft might still be righted, maybe... maybe. Bean knew it couldn't be saved, and he could no longer choose where exactly he crashed. But maybe, just maybe, if he was skilled enough, he might be able to prevent loss of life, and maybe make it close enough to force the airborne Separatist to break off.

He didn't know if his co-pilot had called the outpost. He didn't know if they even had a clear channel here. All he knew was what he'd told the co-pilot before. They were going to crash. And it was very probable that they were also going to die.

Anger flared through him. This was not how he'd intended to go out. Hit by stray shots from guys on his own team, and then driven to the ground by some overgrown insect. Even knowing it was a mistake that he'd been hit, Bean felt a hot sense of betrayal as his craft fell toward the ground, smoke billowing out behind it and engine scream rising to an unbearable shriek as it caught fire.

 _So this is how I die. Killed by my own kind,_ he sighed and closed his eyes, _Very well. So be it._

* * *

Through the dark thunder of not too distant memory, Tavis was drawn in toward reality by the column of smoke spitting up from the ground not far away. Gazing stupidly at it, it took him a full second and a half to realize that it was coming from a larty.

The aircraft was barely skimming above the swampy marshland that stretched the expanse between the outpost and the sheltering hills a mile and a half away. The smoking side of the craft was lower, suggesting a dead or dying engine. And also an extremely skilled pilot.

It was too far away for Tavis to hear, but he knew of the hissing fire, the groaning of metal sheering apart with sickening noise. He knew the smell of the smoke even though a slow wind was blowing it away from him. He had been up close and personal with a craft in the process of going down in flames. He remembered.

The radio in his helmet kicked to life, the clone in the watchtower had finally turned and noticed. With binoculars, the clone had seen something else too. A Separatist speeder was harassing the fatally crippled larty, circling the aircraft and taking pot shots at it from below.

In less time than it took to explain this, Lt. Oscar set Tavis' squad on retrieval. Nobody liked Tavis much, but they all knew one thing: he could hit a target with more accuracy from farther away with less setup time than any other sniper in shouting distance.

That larty was going down fast, and the speeder was harrying it to the ground. Assuming the larty didn't explode on landing, the speeder's pilot would finish the job before the outpost clones reached it. Or worse, they would take the important cargo the larty was carrying. Oscar didn't specify what that was, but evidently the larty had radioed him at the same time as Tavis had first been noticing the smoke.

Tavis' squad was to take a AT-TE. They'd get close enough for Tavis to take the shot. Assuming they were fast enough, he would have a matter of seconds to set up on the back of the vehicle. It wouldn't be ideal, but nobody asked him if it was a shot he could make.

Then they would have to make their way to the larty on foot. The ground was too treacherous for a walker. There was a better than even chance that seemingly solid ground would suddenly fold under the tank's weight, sending it plunging into quagmire. Only the terrain near the outpost was scouted well enough to risk driving it without advance troopers checking the ground ahead of it.

There was another reason they needed an AT-TE. Tavis needed to be able to get a good angle on the speeder to take it out in one shot, and he couldn't do that on the ground.

In face of begrudging glances from the AT-TE crew, Tavis swung himself up on top of the tank and began setting up his rifle, checking it from one end to the other, rolling easily with the lumbering steps of the big walker. The rest of his assigned squad hung off the sides, looking almost asleep. But they were not. They were keyed up and waiting, conserving energy. And probably a few of them were fretting about the ground they were about to traverse. Morassis was a dangerous place. You never knew what the ground beneath your feet was going to do. If you weren't both careful and lucky, you'd wind up dead.

Tavis wasn't concerned. He was quietly confident of his skill, sure of himself and his luck. Perhaps he had been reassigned, but at heart he was still _Fortune,_ and that squad had always lived up to the name, no matter what conditions it was forced to endure. Nobody could take that from him.

" _This is as far as we go,"_ said the AT-TE driver.

"It'll do," Tavis replied.

He stretched out on his belly on top of the tank, settling his rifle in front of him atop its supporting metal legs. He put his finger on the trigger guard as he looked through the rifle scope. The distant speeder seemed instantly closer, shown in sharper detail. Steady, Tavis knew he had all the time in the world. While reality rushed on, time slowed down for the adrenaline fueled soldier, who had not only practiced this scenario, but been in it more times than he could count. A sniper made a shot in his own time, not before he was certain of his target. A sniper could not afford to miss, because he would probably only get one shot. The rifle couldn't fire rapidly, and its aim was precise. You couldn't afford to shoot too soon or you'd miss entirely.

As the larty shuddered into the ground, it kicked up a spray of mud and rocks, hampering Tavis' field of view. He'd been aiming for the pilot of the speeder, but by the time he could see it again the vehicle had swung sideways. No matter. He took the shot, and was gratified to see the sharp bolt of energy punch through the lower back quadrant of the speeder.

The smashing force made the craft buck and spin, and a fraction of a second later it exploded. Still airborne, it twisted fearfully close to the downed larty, then spun away and crashed into the algae stained trunk of a nearby tree.

Without a word to Tavis, the squad jumped down from the AT-TE and set off through the mud to retrieve the cargo and any survivors from the wreckage of the flaming larty.

Tavis let them go, making no attempt to hurry. He was just as slow and deliberate dismantling his rifle as he had been setting it up. He didn't even react when the AT-TE turned about and began to make its ponderous way back. He jumped down while the tank was in motion and set off after the squad he supposedly belonged to. But he did not run to catch up.

His part in the rescue mission was all but complete. There was nothing he could do from here on out that couldn't be handled just as efficiently by another clone. Besides which, Tavis felt safer maintaining a careful distance from the other clones. He knew they hated him. And that hatred could only too easily be acted upon. Bad enough that he could get hurt or killed by one of his own, but the system would punish them after, and Tavis didn't want that blood on his conscience.

There was enough blood there already.


	4. Intel

To spar with Theran was to dance as if with the devil himself. The mighty animal was swift as he was strong. Though smaller than the clones, he was superior to them in speed as well as sheer power. Daily, he learned to become their match in wit as well. His full intelligence was geared towards being a predator, and that included not only hunting, but guarding territory and defeating rivals in combat. Still a juvenile, he had a long way to go before he would be able to match an adult of his species, yet already he had every clone in _Fortune_ outmatched save for Volk. Caden refused to spar against him.

Theran caught Garm gently but firmly by the shoulder with his teeth and pulled the clone to the ground. Garm hit him in the side of the head with a well aimed backward thrust of his elbow. Grunting, Theran was forced to release his hold or be hit harder next time.

Wheeling, Garm prepared to do a follow up hit, but Theran darted out of the way. With a sideways thwack of his tail, Theran hit Garm in the back of the knees and forced him down, then turned and jumped on the clone's back, effectively pinning him. Shoving his nose against the back of Garm's neck to simulate a bite that would easily snap his spine and possibly decapitate him, Theran declared victory.

Straightening, he roared loudly and triumphantly. Then he hopped off Garm's back.

Sitting up, Garm made a big show of wiping the mud off his chest plate.

"I hate you," he muttered, but not with ill-temper.

Then he looked at Caden, who had observed the whole thing.

"He's really coming along with those tail strikes," Garm said.

Theran crouched beside him. Garm gripped the creature's shoulder and pulled himself up. The moment Garm was on his feet, Theran pushed him away with his nose and trotted off to sniff something.

"He wasn't balanced properly," Volk remarked to Caden, "If that had been a clanker, he'd only have made it wobble a little at best."

"If it had been a clanker," Caden retorted coldly, "He would have jumped on its back and torn out its circuits, then ripped off its head and used it for a bouncy ball."

As a whole, the group ignored Sergeant Rafe, much to his frustration. Rafe stood by and watched the squad work, unable to offer up any comment or intervene. They did their own thing. They listened when it suited them, but overall they did as they pleased without regard for him.

Somehow, he wasn't sure how, he had to earn their respect.

* * *

No one was more surprised to be alive than Bean. Not only was his larty on fire by the time it hit the ground, it had hit sideways, caught on something and flipped onto its other side, continued an uncontrolled slide across the rough ground, then finally slipped its nose into deep mud and begun a slow, inexorable slide down into the mire, still in flames at the back.

Bean's ears were ringing, a steady ache pulsed across his temple. He couldn't hear anything else, could barely see, and was half-choked by smoke billowing from the back as he disentangled himself from the pilot's seat and floundered to where his co-pilot was.

The CP was slumped against the console in front of him, but still very much alive. Bean didn't hold out much hope for either of his gunners, what with the way the larty had flipped. He also knew that his beloved ship would never fly again. For a GAR pilot, it was a painful blow, far more than the crash itself had been. The worst was to come. Once a pilot crashed his ship, no matter the reason, he was that much less likely to get another. For a pilot, it was better to be killed in combat along with your craft than to be reassigned. The larty was the lifeline for both its pilot and troopers on the ground. If you broke one, you would probably never be allowed near another for the rest of your life.

Bean knew it. And too, he knew it was the one thing he was good at. He was no ground trooper. GAR trooper armor was perfectly cut to fit precisely one size and shape of clone. The amount of equipment a trooper was expected to carry was also measured to the last ounce. Being lighter and shorter than other troopers put Bean at an insurmountable disadvantage on the ground.

All of this went through Bean's mind as he went for the control to open the cockpit. He couldn't see it through the smoke, but he knew where it was. Once the cockpit was opened, he positioned the unconscious CP so that the trooper would be easier to pull out once Bean was above him. Then Bean climbed out, pulling the CP after him. Before he climbed down off the larty, he slung his CP across his shoulders like a back pack. He made his way down the side of the rapidly sinking, still madly burning craft, expecting at any second to be blasted from behind by the Separatist speeder.

He didn't know it was in several pieces about three hundred yards distant. All he knew was that it was gone for the moment, and the larty wasn't a safe place to be.

With practiced ease, Bean hauled his co-pilot to relative safety beyond the range of the flames coating the doomed larty. He didn't have to go back to check if his two gunners were alive. From a distance, he could see that both gunner positions had been crushed by the impact.

Clear of the sinking larty, Bean could now see the smoldering wreckage of what had only moments before been a speeder strewn about the ground like some demon spawn's idea of confetti.

Quietly, Bean observed the fires burn. Without real concern, he watched flames snap and crackle against the flora of Morassis; but the fire could not spread, water barred its way. Smoke tangled and writhed its way upward, towards the sky, but wind blew it away from where Bean was sitting and he was not worried about that.

Turning away from the impotent flames, Bean looked towards where he believed the outpost to be. He couldn't see it from where he was. But he did see a band of seven heading his way, with an eighth tagging along behind. They were too far (or maybe his vision was too unclear) to recognize by appearance, but the way they moved one in relation to the other said undeniably that they were GAR troopers.

This did not surprise him. The surprise was that he was alive at all, but there was only one logical reason for it, particularly when he took into account the burning speeder. Only a sniper could have taken a shot from that distance and killed a Separatist vehicle. And only a GAR trooper would have bothered to try. Bean being alive was proof enough to him that there were GAR troopers nearby.

The second surprise came when the squad got close enough for Bean to see that the eighth was limping just slightly. Bean had only met Tavis once before, but he recognized the former leader of _Fortune Actual_ immediately. Just how clones could tell one another apart from a distance was unclear to any outsider. When they weren't in armor, you could often see distinctive scarring, and many of them cut their hair in different ways. In armor, they should all have been wholly identical. But no clone had ever mistaken a stranger for an acquaintance or vice versa. Somehow, they just knew.

Of course, to other clones, Bean wasn't just easily identifiable, he stood out like a red painted bird in a flock of grays. And his brothers reacted in about the same way as the birds did. It might only be one inch to most people, because they were used to their kind being of varying heights. But to GAR clones, Bean was as different from them as night is from day on most planets.

Things were different than they had been in training, nobody was out to hurt Bean anymore. But they subconsciously shunned him, ignoring and avoiding him wherever possible. In an army that valued uniformity above all else, Bean was forever an outsider.

So too, it seemed, was Tavis.

As the squad approached, Bean struggled to get to his feet. One of those approaching was a sergeant. Since he was on the ground, Bean was subject to the laws of those who walked instead of flew.

When the squad pulled up in front of him, Bean gave his rank and designation. At request of the sergeant, he related what had happened as well as what details of his mission he could.

Glancing over at the almost completely submerged larty, the sergeant asked the inevitable:

"Lose the cargo?"

"I am the cargo, sir," Bean replied.

"Say again," the sergeant barked, not sure he'd heard right.

"Cargo's not hardware, sir. It's intel."

"Why wasn't a physical copy made?"

"It was," Bean said, "I'm the backup. Original went down with the larty. Couldn't be saved."

"Classified?"

"Above your pay grade, sir," Bean answered mildly.

Scowling, the sergeant seemed to be thinking for a few minutes before he reached a decision.

"We'll get you and your co-pilot back to the outpost. Lt. Oscar can handle it from there."

"With respect, sir, there's nothing to handle. I'm carrying the intel, and I'll get it to where it belongs."

Bean felt anger rising in him as the sergeant looked at the place where the larty had been seen last. He said nothing, but he was obviously thinking 'You crashed a ship. Like they're gonna trust you with valuable intel now'. Likely, he was hoping Oscar could order Bean to relate his information to another -ostensibly more responsible- member of the GAR. Not happening.

Bean had been chosen to deliver this intel primarily because he was a good pilot. But he also had a record for being tenacious, and beating the odds. The possibility that he would need both of those traits to make it had been taken into account, as had his ability to rapidly read and analyze a situation. And his firsthand experience with the information he was carrying.

Once ordered to kill any clones he found on Onithera, Bean had seen _Fortune Actual_ , and known almost instinctively that something was wrong. He still didn't know how he'd known it, but he had. He had been so powerfully certain that he'd refused to carry out his orders and terminate them. He had done this with full knowledge that it would end his career, and probably his life as well. A clone that disobeyed direct orders -especially if what he did was to flee in the face of battle- was no good and couldn't be trusted. Clones were considered expendable, but never more so than when they failed so completely as Bean had that day. He had known it, yet still he had refused to kill _Fortune_.

All this before he even met them. Up close, they were terrifying, dangerous, unstable... yet strangely appealing for all that. Maybe it was because they were so radically different from other clones. They had accepted Bean in their midst almost immediately, as if he were one of them, as if they knew he had nearly died for them before even knowing who they were. Though he was a pilot and they a ground squad, Bean felt he belonged to _Fortune_. They accepted him when no one else would.

They didn't care about his height, nor were they offended to know he was a clone who would disobey orders. In fact, they appeared to find that a point in his favor. When they were first retrieved from Onithera, the squad was unpredictable and unusually violent even among each other. No soldier would ever admit it, but _Fortune_ had them all scared. But not Bean. He stood close to them and was not afraid. When they looked at him, he did not shy away.

To avoid saying something he would regret, Bean now turned from the sergeant to acknowledge the newly arrived Tavis, who was hanging back off to the left, like he didn't want to be in kicking distance of his own squad. He moved with a certain weary caution, like it was old and accepted news that nobody wanted him around. For him, it probably was.

"Tavis, I didn't know you were back with the 501," Bean said, "I thought for sure they'd pull you off the front lines for good."

"You and me both, Beanie," Tavis replied, sounding immeasurably relieved not to hear any derision in Bean's tone, "And yet, here I am. Good thing for you, from the looks of things."

Only a handful of clones could get away with calling Bean 'Beanie' and not get punched for it. Tavis had no reason to know that he was one of them (or to be aware of the nickname at all), and yet he did. If Bean had perception bordering on a sixth sense, Tavis was surely on the other side of that border.

"Let's move it out," Tavis' sergeant snapped, irritated not only by Bean himself, but his friendly advances to what was obviously a pariah in the squad.

Two members of the squad moved to help Bean's co-pilot, but Bean got there first and glanced significantly at Tavis. Reluctantly, Tavis came to assist. He didn't seem eager to make waves. But Bean knew what passive acceptance got you when it came to being pushed around. It got you pushed harder until you fell down and found yourself being walked on. From bitter experience, Bean knew that you had to make yourself an unpleasant target before things got out of hand.

These guys wanted to play the shunning game, well Bean knew how to do that. If they pushed, he was going to stand his ground. In no uncertain terms, he claimed the co-pilot as his own. In silence, without challenge, he conveyed that only a clone he approved of would touch one under his command. And that approval had been given to Tavis alone of this group.

Tavis didn't like being singled out.

"You got some nice friends," Bean remarked sarcastically as they fell in.

Because Bean was carrying intel and an injured man, he was moved to the middle of the procession, with the rest of the squad guarding against possible threats. But they gave Bean and Tavis a wider berth than necessary.

"They have every reason to be angry, or they think they do," Tavis answered.

"They're judgmental, narrow-minded imbeciles," Bean stated.

"They're loyal and they don't know any better," Tavis countered, his tone still deceptively mild.

"They're bastards."

Tavis fell silent then, seeming to realize that Bean would not be swayed from his opinion.

In truth, Bean didn't know why he was so sure of what he said. He knew as well as the others what Tavis had done, and he had met the man only once before. Perhaps it was because he knew Volk and the rest of _Fortune Actual_. He knew they gave neither trust nor respect lightly, most especially Volk. Yet Tavis had their undying devotion, and it was plain to see even in his absence.


	5. Lady

"Damyu, stop that! You're going to hurt her!"

Garm and Damyu belonged to the same squad as Caden, but they served fireteam two rather than one. While Caden had been the first of _Fortune Actual_ to acquire an animal, it was Garm who had the affinity for them. Damyu, meanwhile, was eager but incompetent.

Garm was the one yelling, Damyu was the one earning his name, and the 'she' in question was a gray-brown sluggish creature with four short legs and soft doe eyes. She was about five and half feet at the humped shoulder, fifteen feet long from head to tail and somewhere in the neighborhood of four thousand pounds. A pair of sensitive feelers sat towards the front of either side of her face.

These feelers were the point of contact, a makeshift bridle consisting of two pieces of rope with one end looped over them serving as the means of communication between master and beast.

But while Garm had an instinctive feel for how to treat this gentle behemoth, Damyu was probably doing more harm than good, pulling too harshly and nearly continuously, resulting in the animal either going nowhere or in circles, often bellowing a complaint in its distinct low voice.

Garm caught the ropes under the creature's head, holding them so that they couldn't be pulled on by Damyu and leaving a little slack between his hand and the animal's head, while silently cursing Caden's silver tongue in his mind.

The Morassin Mammoth Slug was, according to Caden, their most promising means of transport. But they had to tame them from scratch because the "civilized" race of the planet, the Anuri, had no beasts of burden. They also had no farm animals. In fact, they kept no animals of any kind. The Anuri made their primary living off of trade ships, both legal and illicit, providing a safe place between many planets to do business, as well as offering a variety of entertainment to their customers. They were professional middlemen as well, often purchasing wares and then selling them for more than they paid.

The problem of transport loomed large. The vast network of waterways, quagmires and shifting marshland didn't allow for a straight line to be drawn hardly anywhere. There were many places which could be traversed but not camped in. Large ground vehicles were pretty much out of the question, and even smaller ones had difficulty maneuvering and avoiding nature's traps.

The biggest issue was that, in far too many places, the water was too intermittent or shallow for boats, the land too uneven for low flying lartys, and the ground too treacherous for tanks. And yet, these were places they needed to get men, supplies and weapons. It was Caden who assessed that the herbivorous and gregarious Slugs were tamable, and big enough to carry several troopers or equal amounts of equipment on their rather broad backs, if you designed the right kind of 'saddle'.

But when the notion was approved, the assignment of trying to tame a Slug was not handed out to Caden. Instead, it was given to Garm, on Volk's recommendation.

Garm didn't mind that. What he did mind was having to look out for Damyu. Two kinds of trooper got assigned to projects like this. The ones who were competent, and the ones who would be in the leader's hair if they were not given something interesting to do.

Garm liked Damyu, he really did. Damyu was enthusiastic about everything, eager to learn and participate, ever willing to do his share of the work. But his chronic ineptitude made him an exhausting working partner. And now the Slug was letting Garm hear about it in her plaintive grumble.

"I know, Lady, I know," Garm patted the slimy neck area (slugs didn't exactly have distinct body parts, and this one variety was exceptional because it at least had legs).

When the Slug had come to be called 'Lady' and who had named her was anybody's guess. It probably happened the same way that the post's AT-TE had come to bear the name _Beauty_. Nobody knew how that had come about either. _Beauty_ was useless at present but, if Garm could get Lady trained properly, they might be able to start using AT-TEs again. One or two Slugs out front could test the footing, then the tanks would follow. At least that was the theory. It had worked on other planets.

Granted, it wasn't the fastest mode of transport, but sometimes it was a matter of how much you could carry, not how fast. An AT-TE was a powerful weapon, and even aside from that it was capable of carrying not only supplies and weapons, but nearly a platoon's worth of soldiers, in addition to its own crew of pilot, spotter and four to five gunners.

 _Beauty_ had her full complement of troopers and, though she could barely move around the base and it would have been insane to risk taking her beyond its explored ground, her troopers were utterly devoted to her. Every morning, while Garm fought with, cajoled and bribed Lady into cooperating with him, they were out trying to clean the algae from the joints, weapons and other mechanized parts of their beloved tank. It was beginning to feel like both were exercises in futility.

The algae kept on growing back, and Lady kept on being spooky, lazy or otherwise contrary.

A crowd was gathered at the edge of the corral, the price of having tank crews with nowhere to go and nothing better to do except make smart remarks and clean their useless vehicles.

"You'll never get that thing to work for you!" called a heckler.

But Garm knew he'd made progress. Lady would wear her bridle without complaint. She would go where she was led. She would even wear the saddle Doc had spent a week designing (and then another building and then refining. It had seemed an interminable wait, but when others heard about it, they'd remarked on how quickly the process had been finished. They had even questioned the end quality, which was in fact stellar. Garm had been forced to admit that his squad mate was truly gifted in his own way). Now Lady accepted Damyu sitting on her back, so long as he was very still and relaxed. But the reins being handed to Damyu had been a mistake, and now Lady was balking. She was rolling her eyes, an indication that she was stressed and would refuse to work until she'd been calmed down and given a break. They might have even taken a step backward in their progress. And all because of the moron who didn't know how to be gentle.

"Look, you nitwit," Garm snarled at Damyu (purposely ignoring his detractors) in exasperation, "she's not like a grenade. You don't pull the pin and have an explosion. She's like... like a blaster. Pull the trigger gently, and you'll fire straight. Yank on it, and you'll hit nothing except maybe your instructor. And that's if you're lucky."

"I didn't yank. I just..." Damyu trailed off and shrugged.

"Alright, alright, fine. Just... get down from there and I'll walk her around. If I can get her calmed down enough, we'll try once more, then I think we should let her be for now. She's had enough for today."

"How do you plan to beat the Seppies if you can't even win against an overgrown slug!?" Shouted a tank gunner, and his buddies either laughed or applauded in response.

"I'm going to kill them," Garm muttered, furiously adjusting the leather straps on the saddle, "I am going to kill them. And then I'm going to skin them and have Doc make a saddle out of their hides."

"No," Damyu said, putting a hand on his shoulder, "You're going to show them up. We'll see who's laughing when it's us and not them who make that piece of junk they call a tank something other than a glorified lawn ornament. You just wait and see. We'll show 'em."

One thing you could say for Damyu, he might have been incompetent, but he really did believe in what he was doing. What's more, Garm knew he was right. He knew the AT-TE was a big advantage, but only if they could figure out how to employ it. And he knew it was his own squad who had the solution, not anyone else's. The rest of these pansies tended to just work around issues, or else call someone else for help. No wonder they weren't winning the war.

Lady shivered and threw her head side to side, her absurdly small legs dancing beneath her ponderous bulk as her eyes rolled nervously towards the distressing crowd that kept shouting unexpectedly. Garm glanced sidelong at them, and spotted Sgt. Rafe among them.

Rafe said nothing, and his expression was unreadable, but his presence made Garm uneasy nonetheless. Rafe's long periods of silence bothered Garm, because it made it impossible to tell what sort of man he was. Garm was wary of this stranger assigned to lead him.

And he was especially concerned that Rafe was watching him fail.

Lady made a lowing sound and shook herself, nearly ripping the lead from Garm's hand. Walking on the other side of her, Damyu gave the Slug a nudge in the neck to keep her from turning away from where Garm was trying to lead her. Lady snorted and tried to bolt.

Holding the lead short just underneath her head, Garm didn't try to prevent her from moving, but pulled her nose to the side as she did. The massive Slug heaved around in front of him and he turned, keeping her head angled to the side, forcing her around in a circle until she settled.

"Whoa, Lady. Take it easy," Garm soothed, his eyes on her body language, once again ignoring the crowd, not even looking at Damyu, who moved back to let Lady swing around in a tight circle.

"That Slug don't need armor!" yelled the first heckler.

"What does she need?" the second inquired loudly.

"Dance shoes!" they both laughed, their noise causing Lady to try and buck.

"Ignore them, Lady," Garm advised her in his best gentle trainer's voice, "They're nothin' but raindrops in the breeze. Cold and unpleasant, but harmless. Easy, girl. That's the way. Good girl."

* * *

"I've been told to recall a squad equipped with a speeder and have them hand their vehicle over to you. They will be arriving shortly," Oscar said to Bean, "I'm told that speed is of the essence. Unfortunately, they only have the one. You may not know it, but Morassis is Hell on speeders. Any vehicles really."

"My ship just sank into a swamp, sir," Bean reminded him softly.

"So it did," Oscar paused, "The speeder's equipped with a sidecar, but the medic treating your co-pilot tells me he's down for the count. He's shipping out next time a supply ship comes in. Meaning I'll have to pull a man from a squad to be your passenger in the sidecar, since chances are somebody will be shooting at you half the time out there."

"Sir, I'd like to make a request as to which man goes with me."

"It's your hide, your intel, your mission. Go ahead," Oscar said with a sigh.

"PFC Tavis, sir."

"No," Oscar said emphatically, leaning back in his chair.

"May I ask why?"

"Look, son, I don't like Tavis any better than anybody else for what he did. But I'll be damned if one of our own gets to finish him off. Not on my watch, Corporal."

"I don't follow," Bean said, shifting his weight slightly.

"I send him out alone, with you, and the next thing I hear is that you've been shot for a traitor, killing one of your own. I won't risk that, especially not with whatever you're carrying."

Bean tensed himself to protest, but then held back. Tavis was a field man, and an excellent shot, confident on his own as in a group and graceful under pressure. He'd proven that on Onithera, and again today. But that would sound like a weasel argument to the Lieutenant.

"Permission to speak freely," Bean requested.

Oscar, not speaking, just nodded.

"Sir, we'll be out there alone. If he gets killed, whose to know who did the killing?" Bean paused, then added, "But, for the record, I've no intention of killing my best chance for mission success. And off the record, if you don't get him out of here soon, that squad he's with is gonna tear him apart," he spoke his next words most slowly and carefully, "I've seen it, I've been there, I know. You don't want that for them and, if you had half an idea what kind of soldier Tavis is, you wouldn't want it for him, either. I also suggest you read his entire record instead of rushing to judgment based on what's little better than hearsay. Use your brains, if you've got 'em, and I think you must or else you'd be dead."

Oscar said nothing for an unnerving number of seconds, his expression was unreadable, and Bean began to wonder if he'd overstepped his bounds. It wasn't Bean's habit to spit venom at lieutenants, and it was within Oscar's rights to cut him down to size for doing so, even though he'd asked for permission before hand. But, when Oscar spoke, it wasn't a rebuke.

"Fine. I'm granting your request. PFC Tavis is yours. You're dismissed."

"Yes sir, thank you sir," Bean saluted, then turned sharply and left the makeshift office.

* * *

AT-TEs require steady nerves and impressive patience of their drivers, being slow moving and rigid, therefore the exact opposite of everything around them. A tank driver cannot become impatient with his vehicle, or concern himself too much with the chaos often surrounding him. Clones and droids move fast, but a tanker must take his time to position himself so that the gunners can do their jobs. Tank drivers are, so far as clones go, some of the most laid back and difficult to upset.

"Leave the slug trainer alone, Private," Sergeant Nattan, the AT-TE's pilot said.

Nattan had seen the progress Garm made with Lady. Knowing that things take time -especially if you want them done right- he'd at first assumed that a mere ground trooper wouldn't have the patience for such a lengthy and frustrating task. But, over time, he'd been impressed by Garm's perseverance. He wondered if PFC Logan -his own spotter- had that kind of strength, to keep cool and go on trying even when it felt like he was making no progress at all. Probably not.

But, in any case, Nattan didn't appreciate Logan's making the ground trooper's job harder than it had to be. Nattan was experienced enough to know that if Garm failed, he and his guys would be out of a job here on Morassis too. He also knew that the troopers here desperately needed the advantage the AT-TEs and their crews could provide. The war was out there, not in here, and Nattan didn't appreciate it when his tanker crew tore ground troopers down.

"Oh come on," Logan scoffed, "You don't really believe that guy's gonna make that slug actually work, do you? You've heard about _Fortune Actual_ , haven't you? They're the most violent, unruly bunch in the whole 501st. The only reason he's gotten as far as he has is because he's as wild as that slug, and twice as mean. You get that thing in a combat situation and all it'll do is get troopers killed."

"I wouldn't bet on that," Sergeant Rafe put in neutrally, "And if you spent as much time watching as running your mouth, you wouldn't be either. Look around you, men are dying, the Seppies are winning here. And, unlike him," he nodded towards Garm, still walking Lady, "we aren't doing a damn thing to stop it. So go ahead and laugh, but know this: if he fails, so do we. I for one am hoping he succeeds. If he doesn't, more good troopers are going to die. A lot more. We may even lose Morassis entirely. Think about that next time you want to make a smart remark."

Rafe, standing nearby, exchanged a glance with Nattan, one sergeant to another. Nattan nodded, saying nothing.

Maybe the slug trainer stood a chance at that.


	6. Order of the Day

"I'm here to take PFC Tavis off your hands," Bean said to the sergeant.

Formerly submissive to the sergeant, Bean now had a certain authority. He had Lt. Oscar on his side, and a mission to complete, Tavis being key to its success. He had no time for soldier etiquette now.

"Excuse me?" the sergeant looked up sharply from checking his rifle.

"My co-pilot is out of commission, my gunners are dead. I'm taking a BARC speeder and a passenger in the sidecar. PFC Tavis is to accompany me and serve in place of my crew. If you have a problem with that, take it up with Lt. Oscar, because he sanctioned it."

The sergeant shrugged indifferently, "Take him if you want 'im. Keep him if you like."

"Not my call," Bean replied shortly, "Where is he?"

"Around," the sergeant said, shrugging again, "Why don't you go find him?"

"Very helpful," Bean muttered, turning away to go find Tavis for himself.

The sergeant had given Bean a funny look when they first met, now he was openly hostile. Tavis was a pariah and, by proxy, now Bean was too. 'They don't know any better' indeed. Tavis must be out of his mind to defend men like that. Then again, Bean had up close and personal experience with prejudice, so maybe he was just a bit biased towards the one taking the flak instead of the ones dishing it out.

Tavis proved easy enough to find. At the outskirts of the posting, away from activity and other clones, Tavis was perched on a rock formation, gazing out into the distance as if he'd been posted as a guard. Bean noticed Tavis had a good view of the crash site, and had probably been the first to notice the larty plummeting from the air. It seemed as though Tavis was always coming to Bean's rescue.

When they had met on Onithera, Tavis and his squad had learned of an ambush planned for Bean and the Jedi he'd brought with him. The squad had dispatched the threat with extreme prejudice. Before Bean even met them face to face, they had already saved his life.

Bean hadn't known Tavis was here, or even in the field at all, yet it had been Tavis once again who arrived and took out the threat before it could do any real damage. A larty was, in fact, a small price to pay for intel of the nature which Bean was carrying in his mind.

"Hey you!" Bean called up to Tavis, "Yeah, you. Get down here, we've got work to do."

Without questioning it, Tavis started to climb down. He jumped the last two feet, landing purposefully more on one leg than the other. He cocked his head curiously.

"We?"

"We," Bean nodded, "I need an escort, and you need outta this place."

Tavis could have said anything. He could have asked anything. But he made only one comment.

"Okay."

Bean felt a twinge, almost like guilt. Not so long ago, he had been a PFC. Tavis had, at that time, been a corporal. Bean knew a thing or two about unfair, that was a fact of life. But the sense he got was not one of unfairness, merely of wrongness. Tavis was -by all accounts that mattered- a good soldier. But the galaxy seemed out to get him; the very GAR itself was trying to erase him.

It wasn't good, and it wasn't right. But there was nothing Bean could do about it. Nothing but what he was doing right now, which was getting Tavis away from the so-called brothers who wanted to kill him.

* * *

The clouds were thick and dark that morning. So much so that Volk only knew it was dawn because of his internal sense of time. Frank indifference made it impossible for him to tell exact time, merely the positioning of the sun and/or moon in the sky. Far as he was concerned, that was the only time that really mattered anyway. Battles were fought, won and lost based on the amount of light, along with current and predicted weather patterns. And Volk knew his own ability to predict the weather was better than whatever method the GAR used to write their broadcast reports.

Troopers monitoring the weather were required to use machines, rather than their own instincts. More than once, the reports had said things looked clear. But Volk could smell rain on the wind, and feel the coming thunder in his head. He could see the clouds gathering above, and observe the responses of local wildlife. Here on Morassis, even the plants responded to weather before it happened. Certain plants bloomed when a certain type of weather was on the way. Volk might not have known their names, but he knew if the landscape turned purplish they were in for a helluva storm.

This morning, every purple flower on the planet seemed to be in full bloom, and the wind was so laden with moisture taking it in was more like drinking than breathing. This was perfect staying home and preferably inside weather. Volk knew it, and so did every other trooper who'd been on Morassis long enough to know what the color purple meant here, along with any soldier who knew to ask of the wind rather than his local weatherman whether or not it was going to rain.

The Powers That Be must have been completely mad.

Sgt. Rafe had pried Volk out of bed before dawn had even become a distinct idea behind the deep gray curtain of clouds. Orders had come in that _Fortune_ had a mission. They were to take their Slug and _Beauty_ (along with her crew) out to meet a pair of troopers traveling Southwest at a fast clip on a speeder. They were to intercept and escort those troopers to their destination. No explanation of why, but it wasn't necessary. Volk knew there was only one reason to protect troopers. It meant one, the other or both troopers were carrying information that could not be safely transmitted over radio.

Volk cast a wary eye at the sky.

Maybe the information was time sensitive, but anybody with any senses could feel the power of the coming storm. Anyone with brains knew it was best to wait. Maybe the higher ups thought this storm would be good cover from the enemy, but Volk knew better. Out there, the enemy would be the storm, and it could kill troopers just as effectively (if not more so) as any pack of droids.

Every instinct Volk had was screaming to wait, to let the storm pass. Despite what the GAR might think, nature always had the right of way. Even against Jedi. Volk knew how the GAR operated, but it was the laws of nature he respected. One of those laws was 'Never challenge a storm'.

All Rafe had to say about it was, "We got our orders. Gather the rest of the squad, we leave in twenty."

What Garm had to say was, "Are you loco? Lady's skittish enough already without tryin' to make her take a suicide shower."

Now they were lined up, Garm struggling to hold onto Lady. Snorting, Lady shook her head and turned her head towards the shed which served as her barn. It was the only nearby shelter she knew, and she wanted to go back. Garm wasn't about to swing up on her back before he had to.

"I will _not_ follow that thing," PFC Logan of the AT-TE crew said vehemently.

"You'll do as your told," Sergeant Nattan corrected him mildly, "Now settle down."

Down the line, Theran was crouched so low his belly brushed the ground. His hindquarters and tail curled around behind Caden's legs, his head held close to the clone's left knee. Theran hissed and growled miserably to himself, but required no lead to hold him any more than the troopers did.

Theran hated the rain, the mud and the cold of this world. He was a creature meant to hunt on the plains, to nest in the forests and to live in heat and dryness nine months out of the year. Morassis was perpetually damp and -here at least- it was also cold.

"Steady, Theran," Caden said quietly, "I don't like it any more than you do."

"Bad cloud," Theran grumbled, tilting his muzzle skyward.

"I know," Caden replied, still quietly amused that Theran was able to take words such as 'bad' and 'cloud', which he had learned in wholly separate contexts, and combine them into a new idea.

Theran shivered, not because he was cold or frightened, but because he was making a remark. He didn't like this notion his squad seemed to have taken. He was a great traveler, but there was a time to stay at home and -far as the Onitheran was concerned- that time was now.

Caden turned from Theran to Volk. He spoke in a low voice, mainly to avoid being overheard by the tanker crew, but also because he didn't especially want to broadcast his doubts to the entire squad.

"You know the lot of us would go straight to Hell's gates for you. But why are we doing this? Reckless we may be, but never suicidal. What gives?"

"What gives," Volk replied testily, "is orders."

"Excuse me, but that's complete bull. You and I both know you'd fight every last paper pusher running the GAR without a second's hesitation. So what? Don't tell me you're tryin' to impress our new sergeant. He can't possibly be worth it."

"He may not be, but Bean is."

"Bean's out there? On the ground? In this weather?"

"Damn skippy. He saved our lives once, at tremendous risk to his own. He's worth challenging a storm for. If you think otherwise, let's have it out right here and now. Won't be time later."

"I stand with you," Caden said, "You know that."

"Then why'd I have to explain it to you?"

"You didn't. Remember, I only asked why. I never said I wasn't going."

"You and your technicalities," Volk grunted, "Someday that slippery way of talking will get you killed."

"And your temper you," Caden returned.

"Better can it, guys," Phisher warned in a whisper, "Sarge is comin'."

The storm wasn't just in the air now, but radiating outward from the squad. Distrust and unease was a silent tempest within, spreading from one man to another without a look or word. And Rafe was the focus point. He was the outsider, and it was he who was asking them to go out into the storm.

But Volk sensed some of it was directed at himself as well. It was on Rafe's order that they were doing this, but they obeyed solely because they were following Volk's lead and -for now at least- Volk had bent to the will of this new sergeant. Whatever Caden said, Volk's choice made the others nervous.

This meek Volk was not the leader they knew; the Volk they had come to place so much faith in was a fighter, and would sooner die than submit to authority he did not believe in. He knew but one master, and that one had very nearly died to prove himself worthy of that honor.

That was the Volk of _Fortune Actual._

Time had not dulled his ferocity, nor had routine tamed his spirit. But experience had made a wiser man out of him, and he knew now was not the time or place to balk. There might be blood before this was over, but not here and certainly not now. Not with Bean's life at stake. Loyalty forbade it.

And loyalty was as much a part of Volk's makeup as instinct. It might not even be going too far to suggest that loyalty was, for Volk, part of his instincts. Once his loyalty was gained, it would govern his actions in patterns predictable by anyone paying attention. It required little emotion and even less thought. For most clone troopers, loyalty was at the center of their being. It was what ensured obedience to their masters, their fearlessness in battle. Volk's loyalty was no different, but he was more cagey with it than most, and a breach of his trust could result in the shattering of that instinctive devotion.

From Volk, loyalty was earned, never owned; it was for him to give, not others to take.

He had called _Fortune_ out at the behest of Sgt. Rafe, but when the sergeant approached, Volk regarded him with clear challenge which his helmet did nothing at all to hide. Rafe, for his part, behaved as though he didn't sense the hostility of the squad, but his own eyes blazed when they turned to meet Volk's silent challenge. But they would not have it out here and now.

Later, perhaps. But for now, they had their marching orders.

"I don't think I have to tell you what you're doing here," Rafe said to the squad, "So we'll skip the preliminaries. Corporal Volk, move 'em out."

Volk stood still for a beat, his gaze level on Rafe. In all species, a direct stare is a challenge, even Rafe knew that. He said nothing, letting Volk have those seconds, knowing the corporal would bend to his will in the end. Rafe knew Volk wanted to obey these orders, though he didn't have any idea why. Besides, here and now they were at a base, punishment for disobedience would be immediate and absolute. Volk would not fight him here. But Volk would fight him eventually. Rafe knew it.

What concerned him was that, out there in the wild, Volk would have the entire squad behind him. Rafe would have only his rank and whatever respect for it that he could drag out of them. It was not a tenable position, Rafe knew perfectly well what these men thought of the chain of command.

He also knew the fate of each squad sergeant before him that had been assigned to command _Fortune Actual._

Without exception, they were all dead.

Rafe was not afraid to die, but it was not his preference to do so at the hands of his own squad. But how could he avoid the fate of the others, when he could not in any way prove that the squad itself was responsible for their deaths? How could he hope to survive when the squad itself wanted him dead?

Without having to be told, Rafe knew that the end of this mission would see him either as their master... or else just another in a long chain of victims. He would either have the absolute and undying loyalty of the squad at the end, or else _Fortune Actual_ would destroy him.


	7. Side Issues

"That guy's climbing around on our roof again," Logan grumbled.

Nattan wasn't sure what his spotter's problem was. Troopers climbed around on tanks all the time, there seemed to be no reason to be bothered by Corporal Volk's frequently swinging up onto _Beauty_ for a look around. Logan had been generally discontent since this trip started, and the hills they were coming up on didn't seem to make anything better.

"He's got a better view up there," Nattan replied, "Volk's just looking out for trouble. You're a spotter, you know it's best to see trouble before it sees you."

"Exactly. _I'm_ the spotter. There's nothing he can see up there that I can't see from right here. His binoculars are nothing compared to the sensors I've got."

"You jealous?" Nattan scoffed, "Logan, it's _Fortune_ 's operation. It's called 'responsibility'. Volk knows his men and what they're capable of. We're strangers. He doesn't trust us."

"It shouldn't _be_ his operation," Logan growled, "He has a sergeant, and you outrank them both."

Nattan was a sergeant, but he had seniority over Rafe.

"Tankers have their own chain of command, separate from ground troopers. You know that. Aside from which, Sergeant Rafe is intelligent enough to know that Volk knows the land and squad better than he does. As for me, I volunteered us."

"Volunteered? To follow the most unpredictable squad in the army into the heart of darkness? Excuse me, sir, but what the hell were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that our brothers are out there, in trouble. And it's Rafe's opinion that we can help them. I'm not so sure he's right, but I'm not convinced he's wrong either. At the very least, they need a tank as backup, and we need to do something besides sit on our cans."

"Sarge, tell me something: when did we start working for the little guy?"

"When he started making more sense than the rest of them."

Over their heads, Volk scanned the horizon through binoculars. He didn't like how quiet things had gotten. There should have been insects, flying animals, tree dwellers, water creatures and so on. If not calling to one another, at least scurrying to get out of the troopers' way. But things had grown eerily silent. He didn't like it. Even the biting insects that had buzzed around the troopers from the moment they set down had abandoned them.

"See anything?" Caden called.

Volk glanced down at him, shaking his head. Caden was hanging on one of the AT-TE's back legs, leaning into it when the leg moved forward, carefully keeping clear of the joints. Volk doubted the tanker crew even knew he was there. He wondered if tanker crews knew how often troopers clung to the legs of their vehicles. Most shots meant for tanks were aimed at where the crews were, rather than the legs. It made a relatively safe place for a trooper to conceal himself until he was close in to the fighting, where he could do more damage and be in less danger from tanks. The only real danger of hanging around under tanks was that the drivers seldom knew you were down there, and might accidentally step on you. Even if they knew you were there, they couldn't see you.

"Still feel like we're being followed?" Caden asked.

"Either being followed, or walking into a trap," Volk told him, "What's Theran's read of it?"

Theran had been darting in and out of the traveling group, sometimes scampering on ahead, sometimes falling behind. In the underbrush, he became effectively invisible. Faster, and with sharper senses than a trooper, Theran made a near-perfect scout.

"He doesn't like the quiet either," Caden replied, "He hasn't said so, but it's making him nervous."

"Theran never says so," Volk grunted, looking around again, "That's why I'm asking you and not him."

Frankly, he would have preferred Theran to climb up here and look around. Theran's vision wasn't better than binoculars, but his brain worked differently from a clone's. He saw motion, color, light and shadow differently from the clones. What their brains automatically filtered out as being shrubs or a tree swaying in the breeze, his mind focused in on and made a conscious decision about. Theran not only saw intense details, he actively processed them all the time. He missed nothing.

"He's keeping low, sticking to cover. He doesn't like the open areas. Keeps looking up, but I don't know if he saw something or if it's just instinct," Caden said, "Maybe it's the storm he's sensing."

"I don't like open areas either, but they're the only place this beast can travel," he indicated the tank with a tilt of his head.

"Speaking of beasts," Caden said, "Lady's acting up. I thought she just didn't like the tank, but now something up ahead seems to be bothering her. I think it's the hills."

"What about 'em?" Volk asked, swinging down from the tank and landing lightly on the ground.

"I don't think she wants to climb," Caden replied, jumping down from the tank, "She keeps swinging to either side, like she's trying to go around."

"We can't lose Lady. I've got a feeling time won't be on our side, and if there's guys that need carryin', she could double our speed easy."

"You think someone is hurt? You seem pretty hung up on that. Got a feeling?"

"No," Volk snapped, a little more harshly than intended, "Just planning for the worst."

He didn't add that it had always been Tavis who had feelings about things. Volk didn't have the advantage Tavis had. But that also meant he didn't have the burden either. He didn't have what he thought and what he knew confused. For him, there were no predictions. Only instinct.

"If you're planning for the worst, you should probably know a few things," Caden said quietly.

"Tell me."

Volk had come to rely on Caden's almost uncanny awareness of others. While Volk himself was highly attuned to his environment and the immediate threat level of those around him, his awareness of needs and mental states was relatively limited. Caden knew emotions. Not in a psychobabble sense, but a personal, intensely real way.

In a way, Caden was an emotional predator.

Before he'd seen Caden's ability for manipulation in action, Volk wouldn't have believed GAR troopers even _had_ emotional states, much less ones that were so easily manipulated and controlled. But they did. All of them had the same desire to avoid unpleasant things and to seek out pleasant things as anybody. Though trained to ignore these desires to some degree, they were actually largely taught to find pleasure in activities normally deemed unpleasant, such as intense violence.

Contrary to Volk's original perception, many troopers were driven to want to hunt droids not because of intense hatred, but because of the pleasure they got from the hunt and the satisfaction and ego boost of making a successful kill. It made sense, of course. The most effective killers were not those who slayed their family members in a fit of rage. The most effective killers were the predators, the ones who made kills, sometimes many times a day, year after year, never getting a vacation or needing one. But nobody had ever taught Volk that. He'd always had the impression that hatred was what made clones so driven to destroy droids. He'd even felt that hate himself.

In any case, Caden knew emotions. He knew troopers had them, and knew how to recognize the ones he saw, no matter how well they were concealed. And he knew how to trigger thoughts of unpleasantness to get his way. That was how he'd gotten to keep Theran. He'd never let on exactly how he'd gone about it, but Volk didn't doubt he was fully capable.

The only difference between Caden and a true emotional predator was that he didn't practice his manipulation on his own squad. Usually. And never with the intention of harming any of his team. If he tried to twist them around with words, it was generally for their own good.

It was a method Volk was largely immune to, because words didn't leave much impression on him. And also because he often suffered from a type of diverted aggression. Meaning that, when he got angry, anybody in range was likely to take the hit, not necessarily somebody who deserved it. It wouldn't have paid for Caden to make Volk uncomfortable, because he'd probably be the one who'd get hurt.

"Garm tells me the tanker crew has been making fun of him since he started training Lady."

"So what?" Volk grunted.

"They don't trust us. They don't respect us. They don't like us."

That _did_ mean something to Volk. Trust, Respect and Like were the three things that could make a team work. You didn't always need all three, but if you didn't have any, you had a problem. Caden knew it. And Volk knew it too.

"Duly noted. You think Nattan's behind it?"

"That's a negative. He's not so narrow minded or stupid as all that. His crew though, they could get somebody killed."

It was simple: they didn't trust _Fortune_ , so _Fortune_ couldn't trust them. Trust couldn't go one way. Not effectively, anyway. Units had to have trust flowing in all directions, to and from all their members. That was part of why there was such a demand for troopers who all trained together. They formed cohesive units much faster and more effectively than troopers who had trained separately.

"Moving on. Our new sergeant. He's gonna try to take over."

"That's bad," Volk growled.

"Only if he's incompetent," Caden reminded him in as gentle a tone as he could manage, "You shouldn't assume that. A sergeant has training that you don't. And maybe experience too."

"Mother was a sergeant," Volk said, "and he didn't have the first clue how to deal with us. Or with the situation we were in," Mother had been the sergeant assigned to _Fortune Actual_ when it was sent to Onithera. He had been killed in the line of duty.

"You didn't have a clue either. Neither did Tavis."

Volk bristled slightly at that reminder, but said nothing.

"The point is, there's no reason to have a fight where one doesn't have to be. You know us. We'll follow your lead. If that means jumping off a cliff without a parachute, that's just what we'll do. But if there's a way off the cliff that doesn't involve splattering into pudding at the bottom... I suggest you take it."

"What's that supposed to mean!?" Volk snapped, temper flaring, not so much at the perceived insult as the fact that Caden had said it in such a roundabout fashion.

"You _know_ what it means," Caden returned the challenge, staring back defiantly.

Volk relied on Caden, but the PFC also drove him right up the wall. The temptation to come to blows was overcome only by the fact that they had more pressing matters than Caden's supply of indirect insults to Volk's intelligence and leadership abilities.

"Is that all?" Volk hissed through his teeth.

"Not quite," Caden admitted, "But you're not gonna like this one."

"So far, I haven't liked anything you have to say. Try me."

"It's about Onoff."

Onoff was a private of _Fortune Actual_ , belonging to fireteam one. Caden seldom, if ever, brought problems with his own men to Volk's attention. And it wasn't because he didn't have his share of them.

"What's the matter with Off?" Volk inquired, suddenly interested.

The members of _Fortune Actual_ had been thrown together and sent to Onithera, far from the front lines, because they were all 'defective' in some way. This was never more apparent than with Onoff, who would follow any and all orders issued by his superiors... only you couldn't cancel an order. You gave him an order, you'd better make damn sure you wouldn't want to countermand it. This compulsion was the result of too much of a good thing. One feature of the GAR troopers was their total obedience. Only some were less obedient than others. In their attempts to correct the problem, the clones' designers had produced a handful like Onoff, only to realize that this was far worse than independent thinking. Most of those clones had been killed. Onoff was (debatably) one of the lucky ones.

"I'm not sure," Caden admitted, "He won't talk to me. And he's not talking to Phisher either. Claims nothing's wrong. But he's been keeping to himself these days, seems preoccupied."

"Onoff's usually pretty social, isn't he?" Volk asked.

He didn't have to. He knew Onoff was. Caden confirmed it with a nod.

"This is recent?"

"Noticed about a week ago. May have been going on longer. Before that, I was preoccupied with Temmie. And prior to that, lobbying for pet slugs."

"What do you think-" Volk never finished the question.

" _We've got clankers after us,"_ the report of the radio operator in the tank sent a jolt through the ranks.

The helmet radios were short range. Usually, a platoon would have a radio operator or two among them, but tanks were better able to carry the equipment needed, so they invariably had a clone operating the radio, usually in addition to being a gunner.

" _Elaborate,"_ Nattan ordered, unperturbed.

" _Home base reports being attacked. Clankers swept in to burn it, but a platoon's worth of 'em broke off and are headed in our direction. Base is being overrun;' there's no going back now."_

"We'll finish this later," Volk said, then keyed his own radio, "We change formation, but keep moving. With any luck, they won't catch up to us."

"Avoiding a fight, Volk?" Caden said, "What a novel idea."

"Shut up."


	8. Choices

Seeing Bean had brought Tavis' thoughts back to Onithera. In a way, he had never truly left the planet. Onithera had redefined for Tavis what his life meant, and where it was he should go. He had been sent to Onithera, away from the front lines, for one reason. Apathy.

Despite all the training, all the conditioning, all the time and effort spent on raising him to be the same soldier as every other clone in the GAR, Tavis had expressed an obvious lack. He carried out his orders, and was not unwilling to fight in the war, but he didn't put any spirit into it. He could never seem to muster any team spirit, or any hatred for the Separatist army. Most clones felt a personal animosity for droids, and Separatists in general. Tavis had for them only a sense of blanket indifference.

He just didn't give a damn.

For that, he was sent to Onithera, where _nobody_ gave a damn. And there, on that world nobody cared about, alone with a squad that the GAR seemed to have forgotten, Tavis had found his purpose, his spark, his reason to exist and to fight. He hadn't felt truly alive since that had been taken away.

For Tavis, the world had begun and ended on a planet called Onithera. Nothing that had happened before or since really mattered. For the one instant of life, the one blip in the flat line wherein he had come to himself and acted upon the instincts which were supposed to give clones their superior fighting ability, he had given his entire future as a soldier. He was supposed to have died. He should have died on Onithera, everything since was just a living death, an endless waiting.

Bean was like a ghost, an apparition belonging to an earlier time. Tavis expected him to be there and gone in an instant. But then Bean remained, and demanded his help. Tavis could not have denied him even had the chain of command not been in play. Bean was not a part of the squad, but he had been there. He'd had the opportunity to kill them, had the orders, but he had not done so.

That put him squarely in the small circle of people and things about which Tavis cared deeply.

"Stop! Stop the vehicle!" Tavis snapped, sitting more fully upright in his seat.

Bean obeyed, heeding the warning tone in Tavis' voice. Tavis was almost surprised. He wasn't used to being listened to anymore. But he didn't let that distract him. He sat tensely in the sidecar, blaster rifle slung forward to a ready position. He did not raise it or take aim. There was nothing to aim at.

After a somewhat lengthy silence, during which neither soldier moved, Bean turned to Tavis.

"Sir?" the single word question had the effect of a bolt of lightning.

Tavis flinched and stared at Bean. He felt stricken by the reminder not of his lost rank, but of what that rank had entailed. It was the place of a low ranking soldier to refer to a higher rank as 'sir', not the other way around. Bean knew that as well as anyone. But Tavis did not get the sense that it was a lapse of memory or a slip of the tongue. Bean knew what he'd just said.

"Storm comin' in," Tavis said, not looking away from Bean, "Feels like a bad one."

He didn't have to explain to Bean what that meant. Morassis was brutal to speeders; they never lasted long even with a skilled mechanic maintaining them. A storm would destroy the one they had if it was caught in the open. They were now on open ground. The fact that Bean had willingly and unquestioningly stopped here without a scrap of cover in sight said an uncomfortable amount about his faith in Tavis' judgment.

And now, Tavis realized, Bean was awaiting his instruction. Bean was following his lead. Seeming to recognize Tavis' hesitation and the reason for it, Bean exhaled sharply, as though annoyed at being forced to say anything, to explain himself.

"You're the ground trooper. You know the land, you own the ground. I'm a pilot, and that means I am not qualified to make these decisions. I don't know the ground in practice, only by training. You and I both know that in itself is not enough. I need you to realize that I'm trusting you to get me, and the intel I'm carrying, through. Tell me what to do, Tavis. Just tell me what to do."

In that instant, everything came to him in a rush. He shook off the dust which had been collecting in his brain for longer than he cared to remember, brought to life all at once by the realization that he was being at last asked to do something he could understand, was being given the authority to use his knowledge. If only for a moment, Tavis was alive again. And he knew what to do. He ignored the touch of trepidation he felt at the back of his mind, forced from his mind the memory of the last time he had been in command of a situation. And the time before that. He had no time to be worried about the past.

"We'll have to ditch the speeder," he said decisively, concealing his hesitation with a sharp breath.

"Come again?" Bean sounded aghast at the very idea.

Tavis didn't allow that to shake him, "There's no shelter we can put it in that'll protect it. Not before the storm hits us. When the wind picks up, it'll throw this vehicle like a toy, and catch us in the process. We leave the speeder, find cover, and take our chances without it."

"In case you've forgotten," Bean said, "I've already lost a larty today. I'll probably never get to fly one again because of that. And now you want me to ditch a speeder?"

"That's about the size of it," Tavis replied evenly, "the larty, and the speeder, those can be replaced; the intel you've got -I assume- cannot be."

It took visible effort for Bean to swallow that. But he nodded finally.

"Good. We'll keep going with the speeder until we get out of the open. Then we dump it, and take cover, hopefully before the storm blows in. It's gonna be a bad one," Tavis cast an uneasy glance at the deep gray sky.

Bean didn't ask him how he knew, just trusted Tavis blindly. Tavis felt the descent of responsibility, the weight of the new burden. But he was not alarmed by it. He knew the weight, it was familiar, and he was willing to carry it. In fact, it was something he had been missing, he hadn't even realized how badly until now. The prickle of uneasy tried to gain his attention, but he shook his head to clear it, and tried to locate the confidence he'd misplaced somewhere along the line.

* * *

The slug bellowed mournfully, twisting her head from one side to another. Garm let her do it, then gave her directions via the reins. Lady tossed her head, moaned and moved forward, shuffling her feet. This was why Garm had been sure not to break her, merely to tame her. A broken animal follows instructions to the letter, a tamed one will behave cooperatively. He needed Lady's awareness of the ground intact, her knowledge of solid versus liquid beneath the surface.

The AT-TE made Lady nervous. She continually tried to turn her head and eye it warily, shying sideways if one of its legs was in the process of lifting when she looked that way (which was nearly always). Garm was finding it difficult to control her, and he never got to stop for a breather because the tank needed to keep moving even on relative solid ground or risk becoming stuck.

"Keep her focused," Caden had advised when the squad had rearranged themselves into a more defensive formation. The words only made Garm want to punch him.

Easy for Caden to say, animals naturally trusted him. Why was it that Caden, who didn't even _like_ animals, got the easy time of it? Garm had loved Theran at first sight, but the Onitheran refused to have anything to do with him until after they'd already left Onithera behind. Even now, Theran was standoffish. It didn't seem right that Garm had to work hard to accomplish a fraction of what Caden achieved without even trying to think about it.

When Lady continued to balk, he shifted his weight and turned her to the left. This time, she was willing to move forward. The tanker crew followed, with the squad taking the rear. Up ahead of Garm was Volk, now acting as point guard. Listening to the sounds of Lady behind him, Volk altered his own course to get straight ahead of her again. A trooper could cross ground that the tank couldn't, ground a slug either wouldn't or would try to swim through. A trooper like Volk knew better than to try looking down while he was doing it, because there wasn't a thing to see, only to feel.

When the clones had first been deposited on the ground of Morassis, a lot of them had stepped into quagmire. A lot of them had died because they couldn't see the danger before they adapted and learned to compensate by changing how they moved, and how they viewed the world around them.

Volk knew the plants in and around quagmires by sight. He knew the plants which needed fresh water to grow. He knew the algae which betrayed the presence of stagnant and poisonous pools. He and _Fortune_ had a feel for the wild that came naturally to them, and they were among the quickest to accept this new reality, to adapt to it and then act upon what they knew. But none of them knew more about moving about on Morassis than Volk. Rafe either knew that, or he had allowed Volk to make the determinations about soldier placement. Either way, it showed more wisdom than Garm would have expected.

Garm didn't need to look over his shoulder to know how the group was strung out behind him. The tank was following him with its crew inside, Phisher, Doc and Rafe were riding aboard. The rest were out behind them, Doc and Caden directly behind the tank, Onoff and Theran flanking on either side. Garm had caught more than one flash of motion out of his left eye, and he was sure it was Theran.

They were making relatively good progress through the swamp. They were mostly on course and still on time for the rendezvous. He still couldn't quite believe that Bean was out here, on the ground. What the hell was the little guy doing down on the ground? Bean was a pilot, not a ground trooper. At least, he had been when they last met.

It was not a question Garm had time or inclination to ponder for long. Directing Lady was bad enough, but he had to keep warning the tank crew to back off. They kept crowding in and upsetting her, and Lady was nervous enough without that. She was a wild thing, barely tame enough to sit on without getting thrown off, and Garm was asking for extraordinary cooperation from her. Garm understood that they needed to hurry, but there were times when it just wasn't possible, and the crowding of the tank was actually slowing things down dangerously.

It was not the swamp which had her upset, it was the human element. The tank was upsetting her, the number of people milling around, Theran skulking in the bushes like some predatory thing, Volk up ahead waiting tensely for them to catch up before abruptly taking off. The coming storm had her acting up too. Morassis was unbelievably humid, but the spike before a major storm was almost suffocating. It felt like the temperature had shot down ten degrees, but it was all humidity.

It was raining, of course. Just a light drizzle now, and a mist which came up to Garm's ankles even as he rode atop Lady. It was up to the shoulders of the troopers on the ground, but they weren't worried, they hadn't relied on their vision for looking down since the first day on the planet. But it sure did made Volk hard to see if he stopped moving. The algae and mud on his armor combined to make a perfect camouflage, rendering him nearly invisible if he stood still.

But Garm knew he wasn't the only one with problems. Phisher had his share too.

Volk was using Phisher's estimations to figure out which way they should go. Something out here in the swamp messed with GPS tracking, meaning they had to find their rendezvous point in the old fashioned way, landmarks and guesswork. It was also Phisher's job to guess what the clankers following them would be doing.

"I hope you realize that any guess I make is a complete shot in the dark," Phisher had said when Volk gathered the squad to give them their reformation orders, "We have no idea what terrain is on the other side of those hills up ahead. More hills? A valley? Are there lots of trees? Large bodies of deep water? We all know Beanie would do everything in his power to protect his information. Without knowing the terrain, it's impossible to be-"

"Phish," Volk interrupted, "Shut up. Any guess you make is an educated one. And, if that's not enough, we both know the universe likes you better than me. If clones were allowed to gamble, I'd bet on you over anybody else except maybe Bean himself in this context. Now, you have the information you need, just keep pointing us in the right direction."

"They might not even stay at the site, and if they don't know where we are, they have no way to-"

"Enough!" Volk snapped, "We both know Bean wouldn't leave his airship even if it was in the middle of an Onitheran nest. He'd die first. We have to assume he'd guard his intel the same way, and that means staying put until help arrives. It's the smart thing to do."

"We didn't," Phisher pointed out.

"No one was coming for us," Volk reminded him, "They have to know their call for escort got through. And Bean knows where we were stationed. He knows we're coming for him."

"How could he possibly know that?" Phisher asked, " _I_ didn't even know it until two hours ago."

"Well, then he's a heckuva lot smarter than you, my friend. Besides, he's like us. He's a survivor. And he's got the instincts that go along with being a survivor. What's more, he'll listen to his instincts over his training, and that'll keep him alive long enough for us to get there."

"How do you know?"

"Because otherwise we're doing this for nothing. And I refuse to believe that."

Phisher then fell silent. He remembered hearing similar words not so long ago on a planet very different from this one. It was almost the exact same thing Tavis had said. Tavis had been right in the end. But he'd also paid for his determination with his life.

Phisher swallowed hard and shook his head, trying not to think about it. The squad had been abandoned on that planet, but Tavis had been counting on the fact that someone would come looking for Phisher. He had believed the information Phisher had gathered was worth dying for. It wasn't. Nothing had changed. And, in the end, Phisher believed Tavis had known that all along. And yet, he'd kept trying. He had accomplished what he set out to do, which was more than Phisher had ever done.

But _Fortune_ had survived. And, at the end of it all, Phisher had realized he'd become a part of something bigger than himself, something he couldn't just abandon. And that had led him here, to a swampy planet, being asked to make a guess that had about as much science behind it as reading tea leaves. Oddly, Phisher didn't regret his decision. And that made him weirder than anything else.


	9. Distrust

The unpleasant sound of metal grating harshly against metal caused Lady to spook. With a snort, the slug lunged forward, dropped her head and struck out with her tail. Garm was thrown forward, but managed to keep hold on her back, even as Lady lurched to the left and tried to slide into deeper bog.

Garm struggled with her, reining first right, then left, then guiding her into a circle. She snorted nervously, but obediently turned to face the source of her alarm.

One of the legs of the AT-TE had encountered a slippery patch and slid sideways, causing the other legs to groan as they compensated. Lady tossed her head and started to back up, snorting.

"Easy, Lady. Steady on," Garm rubbed along her neck gently, "Easy there, it's nothing to be scared of."

Even as he soothed her, he flashed an angry look in the direction of the tank.

" _Sorry 'bout that. Won't happen again,"_ the voice of the tank sergeant in his radio assured him.

"You just keep back where you're supposed to be," Garm snarled back, "This is hard enough without your ' _help'_ ," he bit off the last word angrily.

There was a momentary burst of epithets on the radio, the sound of the tank sergeant's crew losing their shit over Garm's tone. Nattan quieted them down with a word or two.

" _We'll do our job,"_ he said when he got them silenced, _"You focus on yours."_

The nervous Lady shifted her weight, and protested being turned around. When Garm turned her, she quickly turned right back to watch the tank warily. He had to turn her five or six times to get her to move forward again. Volk was waiting dead ahead, and Garm knew his patience was wearing thin.

Instead of moving on the second Garm and Lady reached him, Volk moved closer, placing a hand on Lady's shoulder area. His intense confidence had an instant quieting effect on the fractious animal.

"Careful, Garm," Volk warned.

He didn't wait for Garm to respond. He knew there was no need to elaborate. So instead he simply went on ahead, disappearing into the mist like a ghost. Garm knew the warning was not just to do with the report that there were Separatist droids following them, that their base was burning behind them. He'd mouthed off to the tank sergeant, and that could easily land him in trouble.

Garm felt a flicker of new wariness growing in him. Volk had never reined him in like that before. This was because Volk had no fear or respect for the authorities he was asked to obey. He did not fear anyone, clone or Jedi. He bowed to the will of but one master, and Garm knew it.

Uneasily, he looked over his shoulder towards where Rafe sat, hanging onto the side of the tank. It had to be Rafe that had Volk so edgy. Garm knew already that Volk did not fear Nattan or his crew, and it didn't even cross his mind that Volk's concern might have to do with any member of _Fortune_. Volk's warning was not to be taken lightly. If he sought to avoid retribution from Rafe, there had to be a reason. Garm did not feel fear of his new sergeant, but a new suspicion was born inside of him, a new wariness. Caution was warranted, and it took no more than a word from Volk to instill it in Garm.

Garm knew that the others would follow suit. If Volk acted edgy, that was nothing new. But Garm was like the trust meter for the squad. If he practiced restraint and wariness, the rest would do so as well.

In an instant, with no more than a few words to only one of them, Volk had effectively instructed the entire squad to close ranks, and not to trust their new leader.

Garm did not pause to consider why. He knew Volk, and he knew the corporal had his reasons.

* * *

Vines twisted about the trunks of the trees, growing so thickly across the algae coated boulders that they were almost impossible to see. It looked to Bean as though Tavis had brought him to a jungle in the swamp, an area of slightly elevated ground that had slightly more dirt than water, allowing trees and brush to prosper where the rest of the area was largely covered by marsh grasses that had been grazed low by some form of wildlife or the other.

Tavis didn't speak, but he said much by looking upward, indicating with the incline of his head the matted tree branches above. Bean looked at the dark gray-green canopy, and understood that this was where they would wait out the storm. Here, in the tangle of roots and vines and tree trunks and large, algae coated boulders, they would be sheltered from wind and rain.

The day had been hot, but the nights here were cold, made all the colder by the constant wet. Temperatures never plunged quite to freezing here, but close enough that it became a real health concern. Sick soldiers were poor fighters and worse tacticians. Getting sick was a good way to get killed, and every ground trooper knew it. Bean, by proxy, had learned it.

He had more than once been brought into retrieve ground troops who'd just about had it with the weather. Sometimes they couldn't even get into the larty on their own and had to be assisted by squad mates. Intense environmental conditions could do just as much damage as clankers.

Bean recalled having once flown into the worst part of a wind storm to retrieve ground troops. He'd been credited by his commander at the time as being the only pilot crazy enough to try, and probably the only clone to have been able to succeed. To Bean's mind, orders had been orders. He'd gone in, gotten the job done, gotten out. That was the beginning, middle and end of the story.

Bean still felt uneasy about leaving the speeder, but there was no way they could have gotten it in here. The growth was too thick, the ground too rocky, the spaces between plants far too narrow. He trusted that Tavis knew what kind of cover they needed, and this was the only of its sort in sight.

It should have been broad daylight, but the sky was so dark that it seemed like twilight. Here in the shadows of the trees, he could barely make out Tavis moving restlessly about.

Bean had spent little time around Tavis, in fact they were practically strangers. But when _Fortune Actual_ first came under the purview of one Captain Rex, Bean had gotten to know the squad quite well. There was a predictability to them, if you were looking for it. Where many saw the squad as unruly, perhaps even actively dangerous, Bean knew what to expect from each at once.

Volk was the fierce head of the unit, openly hostile and vicious with those he considered outsiders. Garm was the quiet guardian; one had to procure his favor to gain access to the others. Doc was the inventive and creative genius, Caden the persuasive tactician. Phisher, Onoff and Damyu were the followers, Theran a stern reflection of the squad as a whole and his master as an individual.

Based upon his knowledge of the squad, Bean knew he was looking at a remarkable clone. Without knowing what he knew to be the case, Bean would have seen not merely another clone, but one who was less than most. Nothing about the silent, slightly edgy manner of Tavis betrayed his leadership qualities. Nothing in his gentle way of speaking put forth the suggestion that he had the ferocity to equal Volk, the intelligence to rival Caden and Doc, the understanding for group dynamics to satisfy Onoff and Damyu, the depth of acceptance to handle Phisher, or the inherent wildness to work with Theran.

But Bean knew that, behind that benign gaze, there was a sharp mind at work, the complexities of which Bean was unworthy to even begin to contemplate.

This was the unchallenged ruler of _Fortune Actual_ , the squad who heeded no master's call; yet still they followed Tavis, even if he was not present among them. This was the clone who had brought them home, against all odds. But, even knowing all that he did, Bean couldn't help seeing Tavis as something less than expected.

"I'm going to check the rest of the area. Stay put, and keep alert. There's worse things than clankers out here. Especially in the dark," and like that, Tavis was gone, slipping deeper into the trees.

* * *

Private Phisher was not a clone. He was, perhaps, the only volunteer GAR trooper in existence. Not only wasn't he a Fett clone, he was not in fact any type of clone at all. With blond hair, blue eyes, relatively fair skin and soft features, Phisher didn't even look like a clone when he took his helmet off. Indeed, at the time he had joined _Fortune Actual_ on Onithera, he had not even been a true member of the GAR. It was a combination of his friendship with General Kenobi and his ability to play detective that had landed him there. Obi-Wan (and others) had suspicions regarding the research on Onithera. What with the war, they were too busy to look into it.

But Obi-Wan had talked Phisher into joining the ranks of troopers stationed there, undercover as one of them. He had trusted the clone, then Corporal Tavis, with his identity, and enlisted the man to help him uncover the secrets of the research station. But he'd done it too late. The place had been bombed, bombed by the Republic itself. A lot of clones had died, evidence said the scientists had fled.

Phisher and his squad had barely escaped with their lives.

At first, the rest of the squad had known he wasn't one of them. Eventually however, the clones had discovered his secret, and at first they were angry and suspicious. In time, they had come to accept him. And, when his mission was more or less complete, Phisher had elected to remain with them. Nobody was quite sure how he'd managed to secure the GAR's approval. Friends in high places? Blackmail? General persuasiveness? Members of _Fortune Actual_ joked that he'd simply played poker with the higher ups and won. Considering Phisher's ability and luck when it came to gambling, it wouldn't have surprised anyone.

His mission over, Phisher was given the opportunity to leave the service, seeing as he'd never really been a part of it to begin with. But he had asked to stay, to become an official member of the squad, and his request had been granted. His reasons were his own, as was his true name. To the others in the squad, Phisher remained mostly a mystery, yet one they had no interest in solving.

Overwhelmingly, Phisher's actual skills had been useless. He'd come to the squad a quick study, and rapidly become a decent shot. His true strength now lay in stealth, however. He could get closer to a target unnoticed than anyone. Just now, that target for him had become Sgt. Rafe.

From his perch atop the tank, Phisher had seen Volk's exchange with Garm. He'd noticed that moment's uneasy glance at the tank. Phisher had quickly run down the list of all possible things which could have made Garm look back. He came up with only one answer. Volk had told Garm that someone back there was not to be fully trusted. To Phisher, that meant only one person. There was only one person whom they were being asked to trust implicitly, only one person who had absolute control over their lives.

Sergeant Rafe.

As an outsider come to serve in a squad of the GAR, Phisher had been able to look upon the clones in a different light than that with which they viewed one another, or that the Jedi viewed them. He saw also that they were not as all alike as reports would have him and others like him believe.

He knew Volk to be of a suspicious, aloof, distrustful nature. He was a creature of instinct more than intelligence, one who lived more by impulse than intention. But Phisher also knew that Volk was a cautious individual, more so now than ever before. He knew the dangers of spreading unease through the ranks, he'd experienced firsthand the disastrous chaos that swept through the squad if they were not unified. Volk was deliberately informing Garm of his concerns, which meant he felt he had more grounds to be concerned than mere wariness of strangers.

But the fact that he hadn't shot Rafe in the head was proof enough that all he had were suspicions, or perhaps speculations. He had no evidence, nothing to base an act of rebellion on.

Phisher knew Garm's glance had not been reflexive. Phisher had been intended to notice it. Phisher was their fact finder, but also the only spy among them. He was the deceiver, the others made poor liars. They were not built for it, never had they been meant to conceal their true intentions. Perhaps their feelings were suppressed under the assumption that denying their existence was the same as obliterating them, but they were virtually unable to lie as a rule. Not that they were psychologically incapable, merely that they hadn't the talent to lie convincingly.

Rolling with the tank's uneven gait, Phisher pretended to return his attention to scanning the treeline off to the right side of the tank for movement. But his focus turned inward, as he slowly ran through his memories, looking carefully at every single interaction between Rafe and the squad up to now.

There wasn't much to go on. Certainly not enough to form a conclusion.

Phisher had gotten the message, but it would take him more time to come up with the answer to Volk's unspoken questions. Was Rafe dangerous? Could he be trusted? How should they handle him? Phisher had a not insignificant amount of experience in character assessment. His skill was what had led him to trust Tavis all the way back at the beginning, and not Volk.

Phisher had not had the information at the time necessary to make a final judgment about Volk, but he'd known enough. If Volk had known what he was, and why he was really there, Volk would have killed him, or at the very least refused to help him and very probably turned him in to those in authority. At the time, it was all Phisher had needed to know.

But this was a more complex question. It would take time to answer.

Phisher caught sight of Onoff, visible only as a swift moving, indistinct shape among the trees. Phisher inclined his head slightly, and Onoff paused. Phisher jerked his head in the direction of Sgt. Rafe. Onoff understood, and melted back into the shadows.

Without looking back, Phisher knew Doc and Damyu had caught the exchange. Caden, sitting alongside Phisher, gave him a look which was unreadable beneath the helmet. But Phisher knew Caden. Caden undoubtedly already knew. Phisher had noticed Caden and Volk conferring earlier. Doubtless they had discussed the matter of Rafe between themselves and reached a verdict which Volk chose now to share with the rest of the squad. They were not to trust Rafe. He was not the enemy, but he was not to be accepted as one of them, but instead watched closely.

If Volk decided to turn completely against Rafe, that decision would spread through the squad just as quickly. The unit as a whole was more ready to kill for Volk than for the GAR itself. Unlike the GAR, Volk had never betrayed them. Volk had never abandoned them.

The Grand Army of the Republic had.

It had now been given to Phisher to ensure that it never had the opportunity to do so again.


	10. Storm

The storm hit with only a single warning, the crash of thunder overhead that sounded more like an explosion than anything. It was of such volume and frequency that the sound itself was oppressive, everyone who heard it crouched just a little closer to the ground. Lightning slashed across the sky, and before its echo had faded from the blinded retinas of the clones, the drizzle turned into a downpour. A second saber of lightning cut a path down from the sky and touched the top of a nearby tree.

Conflagration was instantaneous. From top to root, the tree seemed to burst out with brightness. Rivers of blue-white flame coursed down the tree, then tempered to a yellow-orange. Whatever chemicals made up this particular tree, they were highly flammable, the fire burned hot enough at the start to singe the armor of anyone standing too close. The smoke that billowed forth was very nearly clear, but it was choking. If not for the protection of their helmets, the clones would likely have suffocated before they could get out of it.

The air filtration in their helmets was the only good news.

Deafened by repeated bursts of thunder, disoriented by lightning flash and fire and deadly smoke, blinded by the torrential down-pouring of all the rain the skies had to offer, loss of unit cohesion was almost inevitable. Coupled with the loss of sensors in the tank, and the two creatures not protected by helmets, reestablishing control over the situation was not immediately possible.

The Mammoth Slug issued a deep, rumbling cry, rearing back onto her tail and hind legs, tossing her head side to side. She swung her massive bulk directly away from the flaming tree and plunged into a lumbering gallop, sending her directly towards where a stunned Onoff crouched on the ground, shaking his head and trying to regain his hearing.

On the other side of the tank, a panicked Theran squealed and lunged from the cover of the brush and towards the tank where Caden was, eyes wild and mouth open widely as he leaped from the ground to the top of the tank, claws scraping against the armor as he tried to avoid sliding over the side. His thick tail slapped out sideways, clipping Caden and knocking him into Phisher. Both clones plummeted to the muddy ground, dangerously close to the stomping feet of the tank.

Rafe got to his feet, bringing his rifle around as the big predator turned towards him with a roar, Theran raised himself to his fullest height on his hind legs, the claws of his forelimbs up and at the ready, seemingly unaware of having been responsible for knocking Caden and Phisher off the tank, instead turning on Rafe as though he were the culprit. The tank lurched dangerously, and Theran slid closer to Rafe as the clone was knocked from his feet. The blaster rifle shot off and Rafe tumbled over the side as Theran's roar challenged the storm.

Doc and Damyu were roughly alright until the wind came rushing through. When the wind started, its force enough to bend trees almost double, and knock any clones left standing from their feet, catching hold of anything and anyone not nailed down and dragging them away. They braced themselves, but in moments the wind hit them hard, knocking both down and driving them into the mud.

Volk, well ahead of the rest, saw what happened, but could do nothing but watch helplessly as his squad was thrown, crushed, trampled and scattered.

With a kind of dull recognition, Volk felt himself torn from his perch and thrown down upon the ground, then rolled over twice before the wind took to just shoving him along.

This was not the first time forces of nature had conspired to tear apart his squad. Of all the things that alarmed, angered and confused him, nature was not one of those things. Catching a jutting root with one hand, Volk hung on for dear life. There was nothing else that he could do.

* * *

When she reared up, Lady had thrown Garm back in the saddle. A buck, and lurching into a gallop had knocked him almost entirely out of it. But one of his legs was caught in the saddle, so he couldn't slide clear of the slug's body. For the duration of the most severe part of the storm, he hung upside down off the left side of the slug, battered on all sides by tree branches, brush and large boulders. All attempts to right himself or regain control of his mount failed, but Lady seemed oblivious to him, showing no inclination to try and crush him against any of the brush she plunged through.

And then she found what she was looking for. The shelter of deep water. With a mournful lowing sound, Lady leaped into the water, the chill of which Garm felt immediately.

He had heretofore not attempted to free himself, knowing that to fall from the saddle would be to seal his own doom. If he didn't break his neck on landing, Lady would be sure to trample him. But now he had a new problem. His armor was not waterproof, especially not now that his helmet had been knocked loose by one of the rocks Lady had smacked him into. The helmet was on, but not correctly. Water immediately began to seep in. Now Garm was really in trouble.

Like most clones, Garm had an extreme dislike for being in the water. But he found being stuck upside down while his helmet filled with water especially abhorrent, for the obvious reasons.

Already winded and battered, without having been able to take a breath before going under, Garm knew he was going to drown, or at least black out. Water rushed into the gaps of his armor, and the blood roared in his ears as he fought in vain to free himself.

It was cold and murky, an icy sludge seeping across his skin. Garm thrashed, staring through his visor up at the unattainable surface. A shadow flickered across the water and he thought he was losing his vision, but then something... someone, hit against him. He felt a shoulder strike against his chest, and instinctively he tried to push this new threat away, but he hadn't the strength left. Just when Garm thought he was going to black out for sure, he felt a jerk against his left leg and realized his assailant was a clone like himself, had cut him free of Lady's saddle, and was now grabbing his right elbow and hauling him towards the surface. Another clone caught his left elbow and added their support. Garm surfaced, his helmet full of water. The second clone yanked off his helmet and he gasped, coughing and choking as he was towed ashore.

Garm stumbled at the bank of the water, sinking to his knees in mud. He nearly toppled over, but his two rescuers helped him stay upright until he'd found his balance. His head was still spinning as he made it onto relatively solid ground, where he was allowed to sit down and his helmet was returned to him. But it wasn't any of that which left him almost speechless. It was that the two clones had removed their helmets to let the water out. And... he knew them... knew both of them. He couldn't believe his eyes, and his throat went dry, but he still managed an astonished whisper.

"I... why... how... what are you... Tavis, is it really you?"

"Yes, Garm. It's going to be alright now. I've come home."

* * *

Sergeant Nattan did not panic when he was pitched forward. Cursing the name of the spotter who had failed to adequately do his job, Nattan manipulated the controls to better balance the AT-TE. He then contacted Sgt. Rafe outside. He knew there was nothing he could do from the inside, except possibly damage his beloved tank, which one of the gunners had taken to calling 'Beauty', a name that had soon spread throughout the tank crew. They often said that, when other tanks failed, _Beauty_ would come through, and do it in style too. Calmly, Nattan explained that he was stuck, and also sinking. The only tank present for this mission, Nattan knew that _Beauty_ was irreplaceable, as was her specially trained crew of pilot, spotter, radio operater/gunner and four other gunners.

Supplied with air and rations, the clones could survive in the tank for weeks, even if she sank completely beneath the surface. However, their time was not unlimited. If they went under, there was very little chance of them ever being pulled out. Nattan knew this, and accepted the reality as mildly as he typically took instruction from the spotter, who had the hardest job of all, locating targets for gunners to swing around and aim at, as well as telling Nattan if there was something in front of him that he ought to be worrying about. All Nattan had to do was get all six legs moving in perfect harmony, which was easy by comparison.

Outside, things were not so calm as they were in the tank. Ground troopers are accustomed to taking swift, decisive action. That they were not yet doing anything about the problem had them all tied up in knots. While the tank crew settled, knowing they had time (even if they didn't, they couldn't do anything about it anyway. Sort of like when a rocket comes at an AT-TE. The tank can't get out of the way. Maybe the heavy cannon gunner can shoot it out of the air, but the rest of them just have to wait for the inevitable and keep working in a calm, efficient manner until the end), the handful of troopers milled around and gazed at the stuck AT-TE in fascinated horror, wondering just what they were expected to _do_ about it.

The worst of the storm had lasted only minutes, maybe half an hour at most. But the damage it had done was extensive. The trees and bushes of Morassis were adapted to their environment, and bent rather than breaking, their deep and complex root systems kept them from being ripped out of the ground. Any clone who'd found a way to grab hold of these had not gone far and, when the wind died down, they were quick to return to the point where they'd last seen the others.

But, doing a quick headcount, Rafe knew some of them were missing.

Most obvious was Lady and her rider. The panicked slug had taken off for parts unknown, and Garm had clearly been helpless to stop her. Theran was growling somewhere in the bushes out of view, and Onoff was unaccounted for.

But by far the worst news was that, in struggling to right itself, one of the tank's legs had clipped a clone who couldn't roll out of the way fast enough. Caden was down, his condition unknown. Doc crouched beside him, bruised but largely unharmed. Phisher stood just behind him, shaking. It was unclear whether or not Phisher had been hurt, it seemed like the man himself didn't know.

Volk and Damyu silently circled the tank, two of whose legs were now caught in the mire, which was slowly but inexorably pulling it in. They paused at the edge of the unstable ground as though they could see it, changed directions and circled back the way they'd come. To Rafe, they looked like nothing so much as scavengers he'd seen waiting for a dying animal to expire.

"Well, what the hell do we do now?" Doc demanded, looking up from his patient.

It was telling that he did not look to Rafe for an answer, but to Volk. In crisis, the squad's distrust of their new leader became more pronounced. By all evidence, they were ignoring Rafe entirely now. But Volk, though he stopped pacing and had all that remained of the squad looking to him for an answer, said nothing. He had no solution. The silence was deafening, broken only by the feral snarl of Theran.

* * *

If Garm had been shocked speechless, Bean was at least twice as astonished.

He and Tavis had weathered the storm in their meager shelter, but long before it had calmed down, Tavis had suddenly become antsy, nervous. It was the sound of something crashing through the bushes, bellowing out in terror, that had made him break. Instead of fleeing however, he went right for the sound. It was fully impossible for him to have known Garm -or any other clone for that matter- was attached to the terrified slug creature until he made it to the clearing surrounding the deep pond.

Bean and Tavis had seen the creature and its hapless rider plunge into the water. Bean had hesitated, but Tavis had gone right into the water and, without pausing for breath, dived under it. By the time Bean got out into the water, Tavis had pulled Garm free and dragged him to the surface.

Even allowing that the pacing had just been storm related nerves, there was no way for Tavis to have known there was a clone attached to the creature bulling its way through the swamp. Bean had heard only the slug thing bellowing, there had been no sound from the clone at all.

"Tavis," Bean said after his brain had stewed in its own juices for long enough that he determined he didn't like the vacuum of knowledge, "just how in the hell could you possibly have known? About Garm, I mean."

Tavis tilted his head, and Bean could feel the piercing gaze alight on him, like a knife's blade against skin. But it was in a quizzical tone of voice that Tavis responded.

"Didn't you hear him? He cried out," Tavis sounded genuinely puzzled.

"I didn't," Bean turned to Garm, "Did you?"

Garm shrugged, and when he spoke his voice was rough, "Hell if I know. I could have been doing anything at one time or another," he didn't quite say in words that he'd panicked, but such was the implication.

Bean didn't feel that it was likely Tavis had heard something he himself hadn't, but he did know that Tavis was accustomed to the sounds of this planet, and might therefore be able to filter out the background noises more effectively. Additionally, Garm was one of his men, and a soldier knows the voices of his men even when no one else could possibly recognize them.

The explanation didn't set right with him, yet he didn't suspect either Tavis or Garm of lying to him. That left him no alternative but to believe them, at least for now. Maybe he just hadn't been as alert as he ought to have been. He would be among the first to admit that his mind was preoccupied, and that Tavis was the one who had been standing watch.

Still it made him uneasy. It made him feel like he was standing in the presence of something... not quite a clone. GAR soldier and yet not, rather like being in the presence of Phisher, except a hundred times more intense. Bean could not adequately explain it to himself, and was immensely grateful that nobody else was going to ask him to explain it to them because he plainly couldn't.

Leaving that for the moment, Bean turned to Garm.

"What are you doing out here anyway?"

"Looking for you," Garm answered, sounding surprised, " _Fortune_ and a tank squad were sent out to meet up with you. We're supposed to escort you to your destination. Didn't you know?"

Tavis looked to Bean, who merely shrugged.

"Far as I knew, Tavis was my only escort."

"Probably communication issues," Tavis said after a moment's thought, "The storms can make radio use a little sketchy," he looked at Garm, "Maybe your base got the message, tried to acknowledge but it didn't get through, so Lt. Oscar on our end didn't tell us about it. Anyway, you're here. Where's the rest of _Fortune_?"

Garm was silent, looking around. He shook his head helplessly.

"I don't know. Lady went crazy when the lightning hit, and I'm afraid I couldn't keep track of which way she was going all the time," Garm sounded ashamed, and hung his head.

"Lady? Your slug creature?" Tavis guessed, looking back towards the water.

There was nothing to see, for the slug remained fully submerged.

"Do you think you can get your slug back?" Tavis asked of Garm, "Feels like we've lost enough equipment for one day. After that, we might as well keep going as planned. If _Fortune_ was told to rendezvous with us, it'd be somewhere along the route."

Garm seemed not to hear anything past the question. He stared at the pond intently, and Bean was surprised by how easy it was to see the shift in his demeanor even now he had his helmet back on. He knew he'd felt at ease with _Fortune_ , but that was on a ship. He'd found them easy to read then, but he'd forgotten how differently they behaved from other clones. It was amazing how fast memory could fade.

"She's still half wild," Garm sighed after a bit, "If she wants to come, then she will, but I can't make her do anything. Not out here in her element."

"Then we go on without her," Tavis said decisively, "I'm sorry, Garm."

"Eh, she was an experiment anyway," Garm admitted, "Nobody thought it would work. Nobody but Caden and me anyway."

It was as if the name had sparked off a trigger. The sound of Theran's roar cut through the trees, carrying across the swamp, a sound which could be heard for miles. A sound which would undoubtedly lead them straight to Caden and, ideally, the rest of _Fortune Actual_.

Tavis hadn't seen or heard Theran since the creature was very small, small enough to be fairly easily carried in one's arms. But Tavis had been on Onithera, the home planet of Theran, and he had heard the adult Onitherans call. He knew that voice was woefully out of place on this world.

"That's Theran," Garm said unnecessarily.

"No, Garm," Tavis replied, a hint of a smile in his voice, "That's a homing beacon."


	11. Sinking

"What if we attached cables and tried pulling it out?" Damyu suggested.

Rafe shook his head, "That tank's too damned heavy, even if we were a full squad, which we're not. I remind you that we have two missing and one down, leaving us a bit short of hands."

"That's three missing, sir. We've lost Theran as well," Volk said.

Rafe elected not to respond to this. This was no time to argue semantics. It was a sure bet that the tank crew wasn't going to come out, and even if they did there wasn't a chance in hell they could haul the tank out of the mire even with _Fortune_ 's help. Looking at the precarious and awkward position of the vehicle, it was uncertain whether or not they could have come out even if they should have wanted to.

"Well, we don't have to actually pull the tank out, do we?" unsolicited, Doc put in his two cents "All we need is four of six legs on semi-solid ground, then the tank can do the rest."

Rafe flashed the subordinate a look of irritation. Restating matters did nothing to help. Of course the tank could probably maneuver its way out if it had four legs on the ground. But it didn't, one leg had gotten stuck and one of the others was on sludge too watery to provide purchase, and therein lay the problem. The unbalanced tank was sliding into the swamp, its backside pitching into the air, resulting in two of the legs losing contact with the ground. The tank had only two of its six legs firmly on the ground.

"You might wanna clarify that, Doc," Volk said.

"We can't move the tank, that much is true. And we can't weigh it down, we're not heavy enough. But what we can do is attach cables to back of it, then under something and pull."

"Under something. Like what?"

Doc looked around, and then pointed towards a tree that had grown mostly sideways instead of upward. The trunk ran parallel to the ground for a span, about a foot above it, and then the tree turned sharply up, so that it looks a bit like an uppercase L.

"Well?" Volk turned to Rafe questioningly.

"Might work," Rafe nodded approvingly, then spoke through his radio to Nattan, "We're going to try and pull your legs back to the ground. Soon as we do, I want you to start working your way out. Slowly, so we can take up the slack and keep you from pitching again."

He turned to Volk.

"Alright, your idea, so you take lead on it."

That it had been Doc's idea made no difference. A member Volk's fireteam, all of Doc's ideas belonged to his commanding officer, Volk, just as all ideas of _Fortune Actual_ belonged to Rafe. Doc took no offense to the confiscated credit. He knew Volk would want him to explain what to do, whereupon Volk would coordinate, getting the squad into position to play their part in the operation. Doc preferred it that way.

"I'm not sure I understand what we're doing," Damyu remarked.

"You don't have to understand, just follow instructions," Volk retorted.

"Couldn't we just hold our ground, let the power pack do the work for us?" asked Phisher.

"If you want to burn it out, sure," Doc replied, "We don't have heavy duty power packs in our blasters, they're not meant to lift more than one fully equipped man, though in a pinch they'll carry two."

Phisher hadn't thought about that. Then again, he hadn't used the ascension gun setting on his blaster before. He'd been taught how to use it by Tavis back on Onithera, but its specifications were not deeply ingrained in his memory as they were in the clones.

"But if that would break it, wouldn't pulling on it do the same thing?" Phisher persisted.

"No. The cable's plenty strong, and firmly attached. We're not going to use the power pack at all."

It seemed like Doc had thought of everything. But he hadn't. He'd forgotten to check one very important detail. The tree he'd picked to use as a fulcrum was dead and rotting out. It wasn't easy to tell, a cursory glance showed it looking pretty lively. But the green growth on it wasn't leaves, it was lichen. If any of the clones had better known their Morassin trees, they'd have known that the leaves weren't that shade of green or that particular shape. But as much as they'd learned here so far, this particular scenario hadn't come up, and they'd had little cause to note the difference between live trees and dead ones covered in moss or lichen.

However, as soon as a significant amount of pressure was put on the tree limb, it began to groan in protest. Absorbed in their work, the clones didn't notice, though they did take note of the downward movement of the back end of the AT-TE, encouraging them to redouble their efforts.

And that, in turn, caused the groaning to be exchanged for a single, deafening _crack_.

The tree limb broke, and the resultant slack in the cables allowed the AT-TE's back to pitch upward again, and its sharp ascent yanked the clones forward so abruptly that they were thrown to the ground. The AT-TE then began to slip forward, and to sink deeper into the swamp.

Thinking quickly, Volk moved so that his cable wrapped around the trunk of the tree, and braced himself for the second fractions that it took the others to scramble around to where he stood.

The tree trunk was rotting too, but was far thicker and sturdier than the branch. It didn't provide the leverage necessary to pull the AT-TE down, but it prevented the tank from sliding further. Volk settled into the holding position, digging into the ground with his boots and leaning back.

"You got any more bright ideas?" Rafe growled.

"The idea was solid," Volk retorted defensively.

"But the tree wasn't!"

Before Volk could respond to that, Nattan interrupted through the radio.

" _We've shifted some. If you can hold us here, keep us from sliding forward, we made be able to maneuver our own way out. Can you do that?"_

"Tree's not in good shape," Doc said, inspected the trunk, "It won't hold long."

"You get that, Nattan?" Rafe asked.

" _Copy that. We'll work fast."_

"Just what is it that you intend to do?" Rafe wanted to know.

" _Well, the way I figure it, if I fold the legs we're standing on, that'll bring us down, and the back legs ought to touch the ground. Then we should be able to back on out."_

It sounded easy, but it probably wasn't going to be. AT-TEs could fold their legs up, but they usually folded all six at the same time so that they could be carried by aircraft more safely. Folding one pair wouldn't be easy as it wasn't in the design, meaning it would have to be instructed completely manually. More than that, those folded legs would have to move, the back legs couldn't do all the work by themselves. Tanks weren't meant to walk with their legs tucked in. Fortunately for those on the ground, that was Nattan's concern. All they had to do was keep a steady tension on the cables, and to take up any slack they were given. That seemed easy enough. Then again, so had the original plan.

The clones quickly reorganized themselves to facilitate the new plan's success.

"Make sure of your footing," Volk reminded them.

They had already learned the hard way to test their footing before trusting it. Mud could be sticky or slippery, or even both, first clinging to a trooper's boot while his other boot slid about mere inches away, then giving way from under him. Because of the murky water that, at present, came halfway to their knees, they couldn't see the ground on which they stood, and had to work blindly so far as that was concerned.

It was something they were supposed to do anyway, always keeping their eyes on their targets, but Morassis had shown that they had previously either gotten around that or developed bad habits after training. It was a lot easier to trust ground you could see than ground you couldn't.

For the next fifteen minutes, almost no words were spoken. Nattan reported in frequently to let them know exactly what he was trying to do so that they could adjust to assist him in the process. It was fifteen minutes of intense hard work, each man giving his all just to stay even against the relentless forces of nature working against them.

"How long have we got?" Rafe asked.

He didn't have to elaborate on what he meant, or who he was talking to.

" _Calculating,"_ the radio operator responded.

The radio operator looked at his map, judged where they were and the distance they'd come, referenced Phisher's estimates about the speed of Separatist droids over the terrain, then did the math in his head.

" _I'd say we have another twenty minutes, thirty at the outside."_

"Can you have the tank free by then, Nattan?" Rafe inquired.

" _I'm damn well going to try, if you give me the time."_

"It's yours," Rafe responded, "We'll hold as long as we can. But, if we get attacked, Nattan..."

" _Understood, Rafe. Thank you."_

So long as the squad held the cables, they were utterly helpless. With only Rafe, Volk, Doc, Phisher and Damyu in operating condition, they had no men to spare. As it was, Rafe could feel himself slipping, just that little bit. He honestly wasn't convinced they could hold out for thirty minutes, droids or no droids. But if the droids showed up before the tank was free, the clones would have to abandon it to defend themselves. They would sacrifice not only the tank, but also its crew.

Rafe knew tank squads, they'd die before abandoning their vehicle, fight with it to the last man before they'd give it up. Tank squads were devoted to their vehicles, even to the cost of their own lives. Each and every man in that tank would sooner die than lose _Beauty_. Even if she was lost, they would choose -given the option- to go down with her rather than abandon her. They loved their tank that much. All tank squads did.

But Rafe himself had to be more practical about it. Without Garm's slug, the tank couldn't safely travel, meaning it was stuck here indefinitely, even if they got it out of the mire. _Fortune Actual_ had to come first for Rafe, both because it was his squad, and because the success of the mission depended upon them alone now. If it came down to _Fortune_ or _Beauty_ , Rafe had to go with the former. He had no choice. Nattan was a sergeant, commander of his own squad, he understood.

Even so, Rafe knew only a tank sergeant could possibly take it so utterly calmly.

They lapsed into silence once more, except for the occasional grunt of effort. But even in grim silence, they were all of one mind, and it was that they were outmatched. The tank was simply too heavy, and they were slipping despite everything they could do. They could not physically hold onto it.

Volk's quick thinking had given them time, but it wasn't enough. It didn't matter how much they willed it, they simply didn't have enough strength. The weight was too much. Rafe knew the squad would seriously hurt themselves trying to hold it. He'd said he would give Nattan the time, but he was rapidly coming to the conclusion that he would have to break his word, or else break what little was left of his squad. This was not how he'd anticipated his first command ending.

"Nattan...," Rafe found himself speaking between gasps now, "I think... maybe... I promised too much."

On the other end of the radio, Nattan was silent; either grimly aware of what Rafe was saying, or else concentrating on his work to the exclusion of all else.

"I won't try... to talk you out. I know... I know you won't... I just want you to know..." he had to stop, trembling with the effort to hold the cable, even in spite of his admission, "I'm sorry, Nat."

" _Finish what we started, Sergeant Rafe. I'm just sorry we couldn't finish it with you."_

"It's time to let go," Rafe said, addressing the squad.

"No!" Volk growled through clenched teeth; the others seemed not to hear Rafe at all.

"Volk, there's no sense killing ourselves over this," Rafe argued, but he did not emphasize his point in the obvious way; he did not detach his own cable.

"Then go," Volk snarled back, "We don't need _you_... never did."

"Volk, be reasonable..." Volk growled inarticulately in response.

"Theran, come!"

The new voice startled the squad so profoundly they almost dropped their rifles, rendering the argument a moot point. But recognition flowed from one to the other, coupled with relief. Rafe didn't know the owner of the voice, but he did know it belonged to a clone.

Theran shrieked out a wordless protest.

"You heard me, Theran," was the fierce respond.

Beneath the pounding of his heart beat in his eardrums, Rafe heard bodies moving through the brush. He heard cables firing, and latching onto the tank's armor. He felt the weight of it ease just that little bit. Just enough that he could spare the concentration it took to see that Garm had returned with two other clones, and that one of them had detached the cable from his own rifle and attached it to Theran's armor. More through gestures than words, he instructed Theran to fall in and help them. Then he grabbed onto the other newcomer's cable and helped him.

For the moment, Rafe couldn't spare the energy to think where they could have come from, or even wonder how one of them could command Theran, or knew Theran's name at all.

He was just grateful. It was the only thing he had energy to feel.

* * *

It seemed like it took an eternity, but at last four legs of the AT-TE were on solid ground. That accomplished, Nattan made short work of the rest. But it was nonetheless clear they were still in trouble. The AT-TE could not move from this spot without Lady there to guide her. The entirety of _Fortune Actual_ -as well as the newly arrived Bean and the other clone- had given their all to hold it. Onoff was still unaccounted for, Caden lay where Doc had left him. Rafe didn't know his condition.

"I'm not going to ask how you came to be here," Volk said to the new arrivals between gasping breaths, "But I'm happy about it."

He regarded the one Rafe didn't know in particular.

It seemed Volk knew both, but was more familiar with the one Rafe didn't know.

For the first time since he'd known Volk, Rafe heard a trace of true respect -and possibly even affection- in the volatile Corporal's tone. Up to this moment, Rafe had been questioning whether Volk in fact liked anyone or anything, or had any respect in him at all. He was clearly bonded to his squad, but that seemed a matter of duty more than anything else, and he had little but criticism for them from what Rafe had seen.

That alone should have been enough to tell Rafe who the new clone was, but it didn't, and mud smeared across the armor made reading the serial number all but impossible. Rafe was too tired to ask, and anyway he had more important problems, such as figuring out how to get these guys together and ready to fight the Separatist droids when they inevitably arrived, which would happen any minute now.

"I can't leave you alone for five minutes, can I?" the newcomer asked of Volk, "Seems every time I turn my back, you find a new way to try and kill yourself."

If Volk was irritated by the other's remark, it didn't show, which in itself was remarkable.

"I'd ask you what the hell you've been doing, but we've got more important things to do," Volk said, "We've got clankers inbound, an AT-TE we can't move, and no backup."

The response, spoken in a combination of seriousness and good humor was, "Volk, you have _got_ to stop pissing people off."


	12. Tactics

"Volk," Rafe said, "what I need are options."

"Caden's the tactician, Sarge, not me," Volk reminded him.

At mention of his master, Theran loosed a stricken honking sound. He loped over to where Caden lay, crouched down and proceeded to fill the air with sad moaning noises.

"Where's Onoff?" the newcomer inquired, evidently having counted clones and found them one short.

Volk got up from where he'd crouched to catch his breath and jogged in the direction of the treeline to the west. Rafe and the other clone followed him. They found Onoff downed in trampled underbrush, and Rafe was the first to realize what must have happened.

"That damned slug," he shook his head, "We never should have taken her into the field."

"Time for blame later," the new clone said, then shouted over his shoulder, "Doc! Get over here! Volk, stay with him. I need a word with your sergeant."

" _My_ sergeant?" Volk sounded challenging.

"Simmer down, Volk. And stay."

Volk growled wordlessly. Obviously he wasn't happy about being left out. His irritation did make a comfortable return to the norm, as far as Rafe was concerned.

When they were out of earshot of Volk, the newcomer turned and said the totally unexpected.

"Obviously, you have no idea who I am, or else you'd have tried to kill me already. Good thing you didn't, because Volk would have probably ripped out your throat with his bare hands if you had."

Realization came crashing down like a tidal wave.

" _Tavis_ ," Rafe found he could barely speak the name.

"Disbelief. Anger. That's more like it. Still, I trust you'll take my warning to heart. I'd hate for Volk to have to kill you. I think he's really rather fond of you, truth be known."

"Him?" Rafe choked on the rage as it competed with his confusion, "He doesn't like anybody."

"Not true, but I can see why you'd feel that way."

Rafe got the distinct impression that Tavis was enjoying himself. He found that he didn't care to be a source of amusement. It seemed as if Tavis knew it, and took pity on him; Tavis changed the subject.

"Now you know me and I know you, and we both know how Volk feels about it, and I trust you've been with the squad long enough to know that his is the final voice of decision among them. Are you ready to move on and tell me about those clankers? How many are they, where are they coming from?"

"What makes you think-" Rafe didn't get to finish, because Tavis interrupted.

"With your tactician down, it's clear you need help. I'm offering it. If you're smart, you'll take it, whether you like me or not. You can try killing me later, if we survive this and it will make you feel better. But I don't recommend that course in Volk's vicinity. He has the strange idea that my life belongs to him, and the rest of _Fortune Actual_."

"You don't even talk like one of us," Rafe said, finding a break in Tavis' speech.

"No," Tavis scolded patiently, "Save that for later. Separatists, remember? Talk to me, Sergeant, I'm the closest thing you've got to help out here, but I can't save you from something I don't understand."

On Tavis' side of things, he knew exactly what he represented to Rafe. He was not merely a challenger to Rafe's authority, but considered a traitor of his kind. He knew that every instinct, thought and feeling in Rafe wanted Tavis dead. And Tavis, if anyone had asked him, was a true rival.

Regulations and rankings be damned, _Fortune_ was his, and he was willing to fight for it. But not here, not now, not like this. For now, he would ingratiate himself to Rafe, play the submissive obedient his rank designated. The time for conflict would be later, at a time and place of his own choosing.

That is, if Rafe would allow it.

Tavis was careful to maintain a genial, even jovial demeanor on the surface, because inside he felt the same hostility rising in him that had once possessed Volk. Tavis knew that -if Rafe sensed it- the sergeant would turn on him, shoot him immediately. But he also knew something else.

If Rafe were to attack Tavis, then he would be subject to _Fortune_ 's bad side. Tavis was under no illusions about his squad. Provoked, they were vicious, ruthless and cunning. Rafe would be torn apart and killed before he knew what happened. The tanker squad would follow, because they would be forced by training to retaliate against any clones who harmed one of their own kind without orders. It would be a bloodbath, and that was something Tavis did not want.

Lying beside Caden, Theran issued a low growl, bright eyes flicking from Tavis to Rafe and back. Theran typically used the squad's reactions to gauge whether he should merely keep an eye on a person or if he should tear their face off with his claws and wear it as a hat.

But Theran had never gotten such mixed readings as had been getting since Rafe arrived. Scent, body language, vocal intonation... all were telling him that fear and distrust were at work, but not to the degree that put Rafe in the category of "enemy". More confusing still, Caden had told Theran that Rafe was the new squad leader. Though Theran received instruction from Caden, it was not unknown to him that Volk had ultimate command of the squad. It had always been Theran's belief that Volk was the type of leader who would die before allowing any challenger to take over. In spite of what Caden had said, and how the squad acted around Rafe, Theran knew their unease, and he regarded Rafe as an unwelcome interloper.

Rising to a crouching position with his head down, Theran stood to Rafe's left, hissing. One wrong move and this clone was history. This was about the stability of the squad. Rafe had upset the stability and sync of the unit. That alone was enough reason to drive him away or, if necessary, kill him.

Moreover, Theran knew that it was on Rafe's authority that they had come out here. Through simple reasoning, Theran knew to assign blame for everything that had gone wrong to Rafe. The rest of the squad had known the storm was coming, and had wanted to stay at the base.

He sensed confirmation of his hostility in every aspect of Tavis. He also sensed that Tavis knew as he did that the storm had merely been the beginning, that it carried on its winds a scent that Theran did not know, but recognized in the same way that Lady had recognized him as a predator when she'd never seen a creature remotely like him. When Theran had said 'bad cloud' to Caden that morning, he had not been talking about the wind and rain, but of what was to follow it.

* * *

Rafe had just finished relating what little he knew to Tavis when Doc came to make his report on the injured. Apparently having decided to completely misinterpret what Tavis wanted by staying with Doc instead of away from Rafe and Tavis, Volk followed along, his every movement a shrill warning as to how aggressive he was feeling just now.

"Off's gonna have a bit of a headache when he wakes up, but from what I can tell he _will_ wake up," Doc reported, diplomatically positioning himself so he was facing both Rafe and Tavis and therefore not reporting to either in particular.

Doc had learned the technique from Caden, a fact he was intensely aware of just now as the next portion of his report had to do with Caden, and it was much less favorable. He elected to use another of Caden's techniques to avoid figuratively being shot as the bearer of bad news. He waited for a prompt before continuing. Something about having to ask for the information let the questioner know it was bad, and allowed them be more mentally prepared and therefore less likely to have a fit.

"Caden?" it was Rafe who asked.

Doc shook his head, sighed and answered, "I don't know yet. From outside, I count three broken ribs and a fractured shoulder, but he could be damaged internally as well. By all rights, sir, the tank should have crushed him flat and killed him. It was only because its weight was unbalanced that it mostly missed, and that the mud provided an amount of cushioning, that he's alive at all."

"But for how much longer?" Tavis asked.

"There's no way to tell," Doc replied, "Not with the equipment I have here."

"Can he be moved safely?" Tavis persisted.

Perhaps Tavis was acting as a tactician, demanding all facts. But, here and now, it should have been Rafe's job to ask, and they all knew it. Tavis was flatly ignoring protocol. Perhaps it was just an old habit. Or maybe it was because Caden was his friend, and that counted above anything to Tavis.

"I wouldn't recommend it," Doc said, still patiently pretending he was addressing both Tavis and Rafe, "Moving him now risks further injury. I'd recommend at least waiting for him to be conscious, then the pain or lack thereof can tell us something."

"We've got clankers incoming, Doc," Rafe reminded him, "If they catch us in the open they'll cut us to pieces. We haven't got the numbers to hold this position."

"If moving him becomes necessary," Tavis said, casting a wary glance at Rafe before returning his focus to Doc, "What's your recommendation?"

"Keep him as still as possible and move him into the tank. That's the safest option, for both him and Onoff as well. But I'd need to stay with Caden in any case, unless you want to lose him."

"That might happen anyway," Volk said coldly.

There was a pause. Volk had been silent up to now. As per usual, Volk was the least sentimental of them. He took in their numbers, their position, and the health of the man in question and added it up in his mind. Caden might already be dying, to move him might just kill him, but if they stayed here they'd be guaranteeing they would all die, and their mission would fail. For the sake of the squad, and that of the information Bean carried in his mind, Volk pointed out the obvious, however much he hated it.

Clearly, the statement didn't set well with Theran, who snarled and clicked his teeth together, glaring at Volk as though the clone had threatened to kill Caden himself.

"Caden's too valuable to simply abandon," Tavis cautioned, directing the remark towards Rafe, "Clones may all be expendable, but some less so than others. The GAR _needs_ clones like Caden."

"The GAR _also_ , as I understand it," Rafe growled back, clearly becoming irritated by Tavis' interference, "needs the intel Corporal Bean is carrying. And that takes priority."

"Who saved who's ass just now when the tank was sinking?" Volk snapped, "Oh that's right, it was Beanie and Tay! If it were left to _you_ , we'd have lost the tank by now, we'd still be short a man, and we wouldn't have met up with our objective."

"Easy, Volk," Tavis' voice was soft, barely a whisper, yet it had more effect than a shouted command.

Volk growled once, but fell silent after that. Everyone could feel his gaze burning into Rafe, but he said nothing further, and issued no more challenges for the moment.

"The way I see this, it isn't an either or type situation," Tavis said reasonably, "Protecting one does not require dooming the other. In fact, I submit to you that we'll be better able to fight if we do take steps to protect the injured."

"By what logic? If Doc's in the tank, he can't fight with us."

"No," Tavis agreed, "But Theran might."

There was a pause, as all eyes turned to Theran, who straightened slightly, looking suddenly more curious than apprehensive. Clearly, the animal was interested in what Tavis had to say.

"If we don't take steps to protect Caden, Theran will. If we protect Caden, Theran will help us fight. I submit to you, Sergeant, that in this environment that's an advantage worth having."

Rafe looked at Tavis, slow fury growing in him. Tavis had given him the illusion of control, while really leaving him no choice at all. Tavis had won.

"Alright," Rafe growled irritably, "You've got all the answers, Tavis, what's your plan?"

* * *

One of the greatest weapons in a combat situation where you are outnumbered is fear. But droids do not feel fear, and though Tavis had learned the value of inflicting fear on the enemy, he knew that knowledge would not serve him here.

Nor did he have the ability to choose what ground he chose to fight on. The tank could not move from its present location without risking falling into another quagmire. And there was no way in hell the weary and already strained squad could get it out a second time. Nor could they in good conscience abandon the tank to its fate.

For one thing, the tank was a formidable weapon. For another, it was objectively more valuable than the whole squad put together. Squads were often sacrificed to provide cover for a tank as it was being placed on the ground or picked up. They could no more abandon _Beauty_ and her crew to the droids than they could have permitted her to sink into the swamp.

So they could not intimidate the enemy, and they could not choose their battleground. But Tavis knew that wasn't all that mattered.

Though a theoretical platoon's worth of droids was heading their way, those droids couldn't know that the clones could not continue to move forward. They could not know that here and now was when the clones would turn and face them. They could not know that their quarry was being forced to fight.

The Separatist droids also could not know that the GAR troopers were aware they were coming.

Even if they did, they could not know how many clones they were facing, nor was it likely they were aware of Theran. Theran was a single non-clone in the frankly huge GAR, and so far no enemy who'd seen him had lasted long enough to report on his existence. Theran's tactics and abilities were so wholly unlike those employed by clones or Jedi that he could kill multiple droids before they adjusted to the fact that they were under attack.

"The first thing we need to do is make a funnel," Tavis said, once Doc, Onoff and Caden were secured within the tank, "clearly we can't do that in the conventional way."

"So do it in an unconventional way," Nattan suggested mildly, having climbed out onto the roof of his tank for the strategy session.

He seemed emotionally detached from the reality that Tavis walked among them, and the rest of his bunch were still in the tank, so it was impossible to say what they felt about it. Tavis suspected this was fully intentional on the part of Sergeant Nattan. If he crew stayed in the tank, he maintained rigid control over everything they were able to do. Evidently he was wise enough to know that a personal animosity of his crew towards a ground trooper could be deadly.

Tavis craned his neck to look up at the tank commander, "What are you thinking?"

"Use the mire on one side, the tank on the other," Nattan replied, "We'd need soldiers on the ground covering us so that we don't get blown up prematurely, of course. I'd rather a brick wall, but we haven't got one of those, so _Beauty_ will have to do in place of that."

"We're on the same page then, Sergeant Nattan," Tavis said with a curt nod, "Now, we have six expendable men on the ground, plus Theran. Bean we can't afford to lose."

"We don't want you on the ground," Rafe corrected.

For a second, Tavis thought Rafe was going to pitch another argument against him, or perhaps just shoot him now and get it over with. Instinctively, he tensed, and he sensed the rest of the squad do the same. But Rafe wasn't thinking with his emotions, he was using his head.

"You're a sniper, right? So we use that to our advantage. You're not half so useful in the thick of things. Up close, you're just another clone, and that's not enough."

He tilted his head slightly, indicating Tavis' bad leg without speaking on it. Tavis didn't resent the silent implication. He knew his agility was less than perfect, and he agreed with Rafe's assessment. A sniper was invaluable. There was just one problem, which Volk pointed out with clear hostility.

"You see any high ground around here?" he demanded, "Because I sure as hell don't."

Rafe flashed him a glare, which Volk reflected right back at him.

"Not high ground, Corporal," Tavis said, purposeful in his use of rank rather than name to address Volk, "but trees. Using the ascension cable, I can get up any tree you like. From there, I can start pickin' 'em off before they get anywhere near us. I recommend sending Theran out at the same time. The clankers have to come from that direction," Tavis pointed the way the majority of them had come from, "and there's plenty of cover Theran can use. If he rushes in and out, he'll generate confusion. Maybe we can't scare clankers, but we can sure confuse the hell out of them, which is the next best thing. We'll cut the numbers as best we can before they get here, but it'll only work so long before Theran has to pull out to avoid getting killed."

"Not to mention yourself," Rafe said dryly, "A sniper can only fire so many shots from one position before being located, even with Theran running interference," Rafe held up his hand before Tavis could respond to that, "Don't get any ideas. But we need as many able bodies as we can get, and yours passes for that under the circumstances. If things start getting hot, I want you to come down immediately."

"Understood," Tavis said, "Recommend Garm and Volk be the tank's guards."

"Agreed," Rafe said, "Phisher and Damyu will follow my lead, with Bean keeping to cover behind the tank," before Bean could protest this arrangement, Rafe gave him a sharp look, "I know you want to fight, son. It's in the blood. But you're the only one of us who can _not_ be allowed to die here. Besides which, you're a pilot, not a ground trooper. Let us do our job, so you can get back to yours."

Bean nodded in silence, but Tavis got the sense he was still annoyed.

"Everyone clear on the plan then? Good, get to your posts."


	13. No Plan Survives

No plan, in the history of military strategy, has ever survived first contact with the enemy unscathed, least of all a plan hastily constructed in ten minutes by a group of men who've only just met.

The first moments of the conflict were chaos, as Tavis had predicted. But the droids did not arrive in a bunch, rather a spread out formation, which one could assume was to prevent them from all succumbing to quagmire. Spread out as they were, it was unlikely they would all fall into the same trap. It also made it difficult for Theran to acquire more than one target. Since he could not rapidly distinguish any "head" of the platoon from a distance with the troop spread, Tavis was forced to aim for any random droid he could get in his sights and shoot it. Theran could not effectively get into the mass of droids because they were not bunched together.

And then came a second wave, evidently split off from the rest and called in via radio. They arrived on speeders. Coming in from the angle they were at, these new droids spotted Tavis almost at once by observing him fire on their platoon from a distance and tracing the source of the shot.

Tavis had no warning of the incoming units before they were shooting at him. Already fully identified as a target, Tavis had no time to repel down as originally planned, nor could he reorient himself and start taking shots at the incoming speeders.

However, Theran could. Unlike the foot soldiers, the speeder riders were relatively clustered together. Besides which, the droids on the ground were entering into the range of the tank, which meant it was time for Theran to get clear so the AT-TE crew could fire with impunity.

Breaking from cover with a loud screech, Theran raced across in front of the tank sights and disappeared briefly into the undergrowth, on a clear path towards the incoming speeders.

"Nattan, that's your cue," Rafe said into his radio.

" _Roger that, Rafe. Commencing fire."_

Theran didn't so much as twitch at the hail of cannon fire exploding behind him. A creature born wild, Theran had nonetheless been raised in this environment of guns being fired, grenades going off, and lifeless metal soldiers trying to kill him and his. He understood perfectly well the sparring matches he had with _Fortune_ , knew that it was here and now he was to implement all he had learned, and that here he must not hold back.

His sharp eyes targeted a speeder, and with the agility granted the predator who must leap to catch prey mid-flight, Theran measured distance and speed, and jumped onto the front of the speeder as it rushed past. He heaved his weight sideways, jerking the vehicle off course, even as he leaned down and bit into the controls with his teeth. He shredded into the poorly protected wiring, which was shielded from the outside by an armor plate that rose up in front and curved at the sides; Theran's long muzzle reached over this protection and his razor teeth snapped the wires easily.

Theran did not pause to chew on the droid as well. He knew the craft was doomed, Doc had spent long weeks ensuring that Theran knew exactly how to go for the wires of speeders, tanks and droids, using his ability to get in close to do technical damage. Having completed this assault in seconds, Theran gathered himself and sprang easily to the next closest speeder, while the one he vacated veered off to the left, rolled to its side and smashed into a tree trunk, whereupon it immediately caught fire.

Meanwhile, Logan, the tank spotter, called out instructions to the gunners, who tore into the enemy as though seeking some kind of vengeance. Perhaps they were. Volk and Garm certainly were when the droids entered into their firing range. Volk was the more aggressive fighter, but Garm's narrow focus insured that his own attack was more concentrated. In some ways, Volk was covering Garm, because Garm's sole focus became droids who made serious effort to take out the tank, while Volk paid special attention to any droids that tried to take out the troopers guarding it.

By now, the droids were between the mire and the tank, and therefore in the range of Rafe, Damyu and Phisher, who were positioned so that they could use tree trunks as cover, spread into a wide triangular formation to prevent a concentrated attack from taking them all out.

Tavis, up in the tree, had been forced to press against the trunk of it when the speeders arrived. When Theran occupied those, and the rest of _Fortune_ and _Beauty_ got the attention of the ones on the ground, Tavis returned to firing, focusing mainly on the speeders, who could likely skim over the mire. If they got across, the speeders would ruin the funnel advantage Tavis had devised.

Worse, the speeders had the potential to cut around and get behind the clones. Surrounded and caught in a crossfire, the clones would have zero chance. It would be over, there would be nothing any of them could do. If anyone besides Tavis and Theran noticed the incoming speeders, they gave no indication of it. The plan may have gone to Hell, but discipline hadn't broken down as a result. Everybody knew their job, and trusted everybody else to do theirs. That was how a squad functioned.

The problem for a sniper is that he needs time to line up his shots, and that his focus narrows down to a very small scope. He loses the ability to see and hear what's happening around him. And that's why he needs a spotter, to have his back. Tavis hadn't had a spotter in so long he'd almost forgotten what it felt like. He was sure he couldn't be the only GAR sniper sorely missing the other half of his team, but that didn't make his job any easier. It was because of this that Tavis didn't even notice when a blaster shot took out a chunk of tree inches above his head.

What he could not fail to notice, however, was the one that hit slightly lower. Because of the angle, the shot went through a chunk of the tree and the energy had mostly dissipated by the time it hit Tavis. Still, it hit with enough force to knock him off balance, and thus out of the tree.

Bean, who'd stayed in cover as commanded, saw Tavis fall, but could do nothing as the other clone bounced off a lower branch and then came in for a hard landing atop the AT-TE, where he lay motionless; either stunned or killed, Bean couldn't know.

Bean was not a sniper. He could not use Tavis' rifle effectively. But he was the only trooper standing back from the fighting with nothing to do. Meaning that he saw the speeders as they swung around the thicket in which the AT-TE was sequestered, and he realized they meant to come in from the other side.

"Volk! Garm! You've got hostiles coming in from the north side. Six to eight clankers on speeders," Bean shouted, but could not make himself heard above the din.

He hesitated. Bean knew the value of the intel he carried. He knew how much it was worth. But he knew even better that, if those speeders finished circling around, then it wouldn't matter how valuable what he knew was. He'd still be dead, just like the rest of them.

Growling to himself, Bean left his position and took off through the thicket, with the intention of cutting the speeders off, hoping that the cover provided by the brush would be sufficient to keep himself from being shot. He had no plans to shoot them one at a time, instead he intended to employ a grenade and hope they were close enough together that they'd all be taken out.

There was one major problem with the strategy. Theran. The droids on the speeders had figured out Theran was a threat, and were watching the brush for the Onitheran. They were looking in those places for a threat much harder to spot than Bean with his white armor. Besides which, Bean would be taking the risk of catching Theran in the blast when he chucked the grenade. It was a chance he knew he had to take. If he didn't, _Fortune Actual_ -along with _Beauty_ and her crew- would be dead by the end of this.

Bean had an advantage over most pilots however, because Bean had originally been trained to be a ground trooper. Pilots received minimal instruction about ground combat, because there was so much to learn in so little time about flying, landing, taking off, providing cover for those on the ground, and trying not to get shot out of the air between times. But Bean had been halfway through training as a ground trooper before being reassigned to learn all there was to know about being a pilot in half the time most clones had. He thus knew how to move, and how to utilize cover.

Before he ever stepped into an area where the speeders might get a bead on him, Bean stopped to listen. He waited for them to pass where he was, and then he broke cover, throwing the grenade with perhaps less accuracy than a trooper who'd finished the course, but more than a typical pilot could muster.

Theran, who had been coming in for another rush, caught sight of the flying object, and had the vision to recognize it despite how fast it was moving. He wheeled and darted away with a sharp honking noise, which reluctantly formed itself into the word "Grenade!", which Bean had forgotten to shout to give Theran fair warning.

Both Theran and Bean were uncomfortably close to the blast radius, and the force of the explosion knocked Theran over, while Bean hit the dirt before it went off. When the smoke cleared, there wasn't a speeder left standing. Theran caught Bean's eye, threw back his head and roared in triumph, before running back the way he'd come to get in behind the droids.

Bean retraced his steps through the thicket, and climbed onto the top of the tank. Tavis hadn't moved. Bean dragged him down to cover behind it before trying to revive him.

* * *

 _The trick, Tay, is finding out which kind you're dealing with._

Tavis knew his awareness was coming in patchy. He could only see some of the time, and the sounds he could hear were vague and menacing. Voices he knew but didn't know were yelling things that made no sense, and he got the impression that was because he was hearing wrong. He felt pressure on his shoulder, chest and across his legs, it felt like he was being sat on. He couldn't get his breath.

He knew this time and place. The troopers he'd fought alongside had ostracized him for what he'd done, and then he'd been transferred, and ostracized there too, because those troopers also knew what he'd done, and had also seen he was different and shunned him. But he wasn't alone. Not now, and not then either. Here, as there, he was at a table with the members of _Fortune Actual_. All were seated and gazing solemnly at him, including Theran, who never used chairs in the real world and the way he was doing it now violated the laws of physics.

Volk sat directly across from Tavis, hands clasped on the table. His eyes were not dark merely by design, but the soul behind them was almost visibly darker than most as well. Not evil, perhaps, but more cunning and less accepting of the traditionally black and white universe than most people.

Tavis knew he'd asked a question, but didn't remember what it was. But Volk was responding to it. Volk offered such insights only to a select few, and never repeated information of this kind. He clearly felt it was highly valuable, and that Tavis' life might depend on it one day, but he fully expected Tavis to remember it from that moment forward.

"Animals," he was saying, "are pretty much the same all over the galaxy. The trick is knowing which kind you're dealing with, and what mood they're in."

 _I don't understand,_ Tavis said, but didn't hear himself say so.

"It's very simple," Theran said, though in reality he seldom said more than a word or two, and his vocabulary was pitifully limited, "Everything is unique, but it is also all the same. One universe, unlimited possibilities, but few probabilities."

"I think I was bitten by a shark once," Bean said, "It was trying to kill me."

"It was terribly inefficient then, wasn't it?" Doc grunted, magically replacing Volk at the table.

Whoever was talking seemed to take the middle seat, the others simply took positions to the side. Only Tavis never saw any of them move, and Doc's hands were clasped exactly as those before had been, and his eyes held that same terrible darkness, which had no place in his normally placid expression.

"Huh?"

Doc was replaced at once by Volk, who suddenly stood and yelled, not at Tavis specifically, but the whole damned world, which Tavis noticed was hazy and indistinct beyond the table itself.

"Never let the predators off the top of your list!The natural born killers are always more dangerous than the programmed ones! Those are built by people afraid to get blood on their own hands. Their fear is what prevents their creations from ever standing a chance. Because _that's_ programmed in _too_."

"What are you talking about!?" Bean demanded, "Clankers don't know fear!"

"Of course not," Caden had taken Volk's place, and his tone was much more reasonable, "But _every_ flaw in their programming that we can exploit is there because someone is too afraid to get into the danger zone for themselves and really _see_ what it's like. Someone is scared to death of killing, not because they're afraid of what it'll do to their soul, but because they're scared to be hurt in the process, or maybe worried about what someone will think of them. The predators of the galaxy know that fear, but they face it, because they've no _choice_."

"I don't understand! What has this got to do with the shark?" Bean demanded.

"Forget the shark!" Volk roared, then Garm broke in with "It's the swarm!"

They took it up like a chant, flickering here and there like ghosts as the delusion began to fragment and dissipate in favor of the much more painful, but less confusing, coldness of reality.

"The swarm! The swarm! The swarm!"

Then Tavis was awake, and he realized the shouting was real. Overhead, the sky had turned a menacing black, the air had come alive with buzzing. Bean was lying across Tavis, pressing him flat against the mud as the swarm burst upon them, trying to shield him from the millions of black insects.

At first, Tavis didn't entirely understand what was happening. Then the first of the insects found its way through the protection of his armor and bit him. It was then that he understood.

Over the buzzing came Volk's voice, a shout of fierce anger towards this new enemy.

"Everybody into the tank. Move! Move!"

Volk had realized the danger, perhaps before Tavis himself understood fully that they were under attack by a swarm of biting insects, which descended on the GAR troopers like locusts on crops. These weren't like the mosquitoes they'd encountered up to now. These were different. Fatally different.

If the squad didn't get out of the way of these flying monsters, they'd be eaten alive.


	14. Swarm

_"What_ is _that?"_

The question swept through the squad, being repeated in murmur from one to another, all eyes turning to what Damyu had spotted. A dark ripple across the sky, indistinct yet disturbing and not at all like a rain cloud. Uneasily, the clones on the ground shifted towards one another, instinctively adopting the battle formation they'd learned almost before they could walk.

Logan, the spotter, swung his equipment in the direction of the dark cloud, intent on identification. His equipment was better than anything a ground trooper had, he got a close up visual.

"Nat, we've got a... a swarm incoming," he reported.

"Swarm? Of what?" Nattan demanded.

"Some kind of... insect maybe? They're tiny. There's got to be millions of them. More."

"Native wildlife?"

"Probably. But I didn't get the memo on these."

"Do they look dangerous?"

"Damned if I know, but they're coming fast."

Nattan exhaled through his teeth, a poor attempt to conceal his irritation. Then he reported to Rafe.

" _Everybody into the tank!"_ Volk's voice came through loud and clear, _"Move! Move!"_

* * *

The swarm hit with the impact of a blaster shot, rocking the AT-TE on its neatly folded legs. Everybody flinched at the unexpected jolt. The thrumming of countless wings filled the air, a sound that drowned out all other, lesser noises.

Theran hissed, opening his mouth and flashing the serrated edges of his beak. He drew back his head and snapped at the air, and the trooper nearest him let out an involuntary yelp. Volk laid a hand on Theran's neck and the beast quieted, tucking his head and continuing to hiss angrily.

The tank rocked again as the swarm swept around in it like a little tornado.

"What are they doing?" Damyu asked nobody in particular.

"They found something strange in their environment," Tavis replied, "They're investigating. You just better pray there's no way in here."

The rookie whimpered, a decidedly undignified way to take the news. Volk shushed him, nudging him in the leg with his boot. Such sounds were beneath GAR troopers. Tavis blew through his nose, knowing full well that every trooper had their own private fear, something that could wring that out of them. He'd heard it enough times in his life, from many different troopers.

A high pitched pinging drew attention to the armor plating overhead.

"What the hell..." Doc grunted, sounding more bewildered than afraid.

"They're gathering into tight knit groups," Logan supplied, "A ball of them is hitting the seams between armor plates. That's what's making the noise."

"Oh. Yeah, I hear that," Doc nodded.

That didn't seem to make anybody else feel better as the thrumming swelled again, then died down once more. It wasn't until Volk spoke that Rafe realized they had reason to worry.

"Let's just hope they don't find the underside of this thing."

Rafe stiffened as the realization hit him. The underside of the tank wasn't so well armored. While a bit of grit wasn't likely to get in, maybe there was a way in for the insects.

"I wouldn't worry," Nattan's voice seemed disembodied, floating through the darkened hull, "We're waterproof, which means we're bug resistant too."

"Good to know," Volk replied, but Rafe could make him out in the dull red emergency lighting.

He was not standing in a relaxed manner. Volk knew better than to assume nature couldn't get the best of technology. Rafe was fast learning it too, but forced himself to relax, knowing that the rest of the squad was watching him. He had to keep calm, very calm, much calmer than everybody else. He had to convey calmness to them, words wouldn't cut it and _Fortune_ could see through a false mood like it wasn't even there. Rafe dug deep, and worked at convincing himself everything was fine.

The thrumming fell away entirely, and the clones looked at one another, hoping that was a good sign.

Garm cocked his head to the side, the first to hear it. The rain came down suddenly, like a pail of water being tipped over. But it then kept coming, thundering endlessly from the sky. The clones weren't worried about getting wet, but Garm wasn't listening to the rain. The swarm wasn't gone. It was hiding under the tank.

"Dangerous?" Doc asked nobody in particular.

"Definitely," Tavis replied for whoever else might have, "You heard them hit the tank, they know that we're in here."

"Maybe they wouldn't be interested in us?" Damyu said hopefully.

"Why do you suppose they tried so hard to get in here?" Volk spat, "The sweep was curiosity. The first hit was a test. The second... they want something that's in here."

"Us?" Rafe guessed.

" _Us_. Those things want us for dinner."

"Lovely," Doc grunted sarcastically, "Just when I was beginning to think the clankers were our biggest problem again."

"Never let the predators off the top of your list," Volk advised, "The natural born killers are always more dangerous than the programmed ones. Those are programmed by people afraid to get blood on their own hands. Their fear is what prevents their creations from ever standing a chance. Because that's programmed in too."

"What are you on about, Volk?" Rafe demanded, "Clankers don't know fear."

"Of course not. But every flaw in their programming that we can exploit is there because someone is too afraid to get into the danger zone for themselves and see what it's like. Someone is scared to death of killing, not because they're afraid of what it'll do to their soul, but because they're scared to be hurt in the process, or maybe worried about what someone will think of them. The predators of the galaxy know that fear, but they face it, because they've no choice."

Tavis, near Rafe, made a small sound like he was in pain, but quickly stifled it. Everyone ignored him for the moment.

"Well, at least they took out the clankers," Phisher remarked.

It was true. When the swarm had descended in a choking cloud, it had flown straight through the ranks of the droids, causing most of them to short out. Rafe's assumption was that the swarm had interrupted energy flow or clogged cooling fans or something. Tavis seemed to have no such theory.

"They took out the clankers? That's not good," Tavis said.

"Don't keep thoughts to yourself, Tavis," Volk growled, "Tell us."

"They attacked both us _and_ the clankers, meaning they're not just flesh eaters. There has to be something common to both parties that they want."

"Electric impulses," Doc supplied without hesitation.

"That's my thought," Tavis nodded, "Meaning they're not going to leave us alone. This tank we're hiding in is a massive source of energy. They're going to find a way inside, probably as soon as the rain lets up."

"This is _not_ what I signed on for," Phisher remarked.

"Oh really? What did you sign on for then?" Volk demanded.

"Well it sure as hell wasn't to be a buffet for a bunch of life sucking insects."

Rain drummed on the roof, sending a reverberating, headache inducing echo through the interior of the AT-TE. For an hour it pounded, its volume increasing steadily until conversation was impossible. Nobody had anything to say anyway. Then a sloshing sound ran up alongside the AT-TE. There was momentary confusion, then the troopers realized what they were hearing. Flooding, rising water.

Volk and Tavis exchanged glances, but neither was worried. The water wouldn't be there long. Not with the way it was rushing, rocking the AT-TE on its joints. The only threat was that the tank might be swept away, and that was a crisis they could deal with. The thing would likely stay upright, and had GPS, so they wouldn't be lost, no matter where they were carted off to.

Volk wondered how many droids were being swept away, battered against rocks and tree trunks, demolished all at once by the sweeping waters of a Morassin flood. The area would be cleared of droids, unless any were smart enough to find good cover. Unlikely.

"We can't stay here."

It was Rafe that said it, but Volk didn't echo the sentiment. He was irritated by that particular statement of the blindingly obvious. Of course they couldn't stay. When the storm ended, the insects would try to finish what they'd started. Depending on their determination and life cycle, it was possible the clones couldn't wait for them to leave. And, as they had intel to deliver, they had little time to hang around and wait. Intel was time sensitive, or usually so anyway.

Traveling in the storm would be a fool's errand. But if they waited for it to end, the insects could be upon them the second they set foot outdoors. Volk hoped Rafe had some brilliant idea to go with the flash of obviousness he'd already shown. But Rafe added nothing to his statement.

"They're not going to leave us alone," Volk prompted, "They know we're in here, and that we're a source of food. Unless you got a can of bug spray in your survival kit-"

"That's not helpful," Rafe interrupted, and Volk bristled, but held his tongue when Tavis nudged him with his shoulder.

In this instance, Rafe was right. But that had been Volk's intent. His remark was no less inane than Rafe's had been, and his was at least aimed at trying to pry something useful out of somebody. You shouldn't just go around making idiot remarks unless you had something useful to follow up with.

Rafe didn't miss Tavis' intervention. He turned his head sharply to look directly at Volk, debating whether or not he should demand more respect from the leader of _Fortune_ 's fireteam two. Volk gazed back levelly. It was Rafe who looked away first.

"Logan, how fast do you think those bugs were flyin'?" Rafe asked, and sighed when Logan told him, "Faster than any of us... any of us except Theran, that is."

Tavis felt Volk go rigid beside him. Theran reacted instantly to the tension in the hand resting on his neck. With a hiss-growl, he swung his head sideways to seek out the perceived threat. His head had been tucked before, and the S-shaped neck stretching out knocked and jostled a couple of arms and bodies to the side.

"Easy," Tavis barely breathed the word.

"You will not use Theran as bait!" Volk snarled, " _He_ is not expendable!"

"All of us are expendable," Rafe reminded him.

"Not. _Theran_ ," Volk growled, carefully enunciating the words.

Theran growled and snapped at the air, reading Volk's tension, but having trouble locating the danger.

"Volk, settle down," Tavis hissed urgently, a warning of his own.

Volk twitched, but gave no other sign of acknowledgment.

"He's our best chance," Rafe said, deciding that reason trumped authoritative bluster; a wise decision on his part, "We've established that we can't stay indefinitely, and those bugs aren't leaving. Theran can outrun them and rejoin us later."

"You don't know that," Volk's voice didn't rise in volume, only intensity, "You only know they came to investigate a stationary object. You don't know how fast their pursuit is, or what their endurance is like. You get me that information, _then_ we'll talk about it."

"You know I can't do that," Rafe replied, not sure if reason was really the way to go after all, "You know everything about them that I do."

"Maybe we're jumping to conclusions," suggested Damyu, hoping to diffuse the situation so he could stop pressing himself against the wall of the AT-TE to avoid Theran's snapping jaws, "Maybe they will leave."

"Moron," Doc muttered quietly, rolling his eyes.

"The behavior we've seen is purely predatory. Not just scavenger, not just opportunist, not just curious about something new in the area. We've seen enough to know they've come to kill. And there's enough of them to kill us," Garm said, careful not to weigh in on the discussion while answering Damyu.

"My point exactly," Rafe said, overhearing Garm, who flinched at having his own words used in the argument, "There's no easy way out. If there was, trust me, I'd prefer it."

"This is not a debate," Volk growled, a sound echoed fiercely by Theran, "I said no!"

Rafe made as if to retort, but he never got the chance.

"Alright, enough!" Tavis roared abruptly, "Volk, back off. Sarge, shut up. Theran, cut it out!"

The silence in the AT-TE was abrupt and profound. The rain kept hammering down, though the wind had stopped whistling, or blowing at all. Soft buzzing noises came from beneath them, where the swarm had tucked into air pockets to avoid the rising water. Theran tucked his head back against his shoulders, drawing his wings closer against his body.

"That's better. Caden, you have an idea."

A shiver of surprise went through the ranks, probably starting with Rafe. Nobody besides Tavis had realized Caden had been awake since they entered the tank, Caden had been so quiet. There was a pause, as though Caden were marshaling strength to answer his leader.

"The reason our blasters won't work is that that the laser is too concentrated, the field of fire too narrow," Caden said very quietly, voice thick with pain, "But we have an alternative weapon. Grenades."

"I don't think chunks of metal will do it," Rafe muttered.

"No... but a flash-bang might," Caden paused, biting back a grunt of pain before going on, "Maybe even a smoke grenade. Remember, these aren't people like us... or clankers either. Even if they don't use sight or hearing... and we don't know that they do... sound vibration powerful enough to deafen us could knock them out of the air.. maybe kill them. Smoke would confuse them... maybe suffocate them. Bugs... they don't like smoke. It'd be like us trying to fly in a hailstorm. If the hail was the size of our ships."

"How do you intend to deliver this?" Rafe asked, grudgingly considering the idea.

There was a long pause. Caden's breathing was more audible now that he was trying to keep enough strength to finish his idea and everyone was being quiet so they could hear him. He knew what he was saying, knew what was at stake. More than anything, he knew that this plan would not necessarily include saving his life.

"Wait for the storm to... die down enough for safe travel, then toss a grenade under _Beauty._ Then leave before they recover."

"One problem," Nattan weighed in for the first time, " _Beauty_ can't move."

"Define 'can't'," Tavis said, "Can't move at all, or it would be very bad?"

"It's the mires," Nattan explained, "Our sensors can't detect them. We were using a Mammoth Slug, but she ran away. If we move the tank without her, we'll be driving blind. Almost guaranteed _Beauty_ will get stuck in another pit. She'll sink. She'll die."

It sounded like insanity to have such devotion to a mere tank, to talk about it like it was alive, but the clones were willing to go along with it. Peculiar quirks were standard in their lives, and certainly Nattan's sentiments would be echoed by any tank sergeant in the GAR.

"So what if we locked her up and came back for her later?" Tavis asked.

"And leave her unguarded for clankers to find?" Nattan's voice squeaked, he was trying to contain his outrage.

"Settle down," Rafe snapped before it could go further, "Now, our problem is that we can't be sure of killing the bugs, they won't leave, and that we have to get our intel through. We also can't all stay like this forever."

"Make your point," Volk snapped impatiently; Rafe chose to ignore his disrespectful tone.

"Just this: do all of us have to get to the intel through?"

"What?"

"Say the tank crew stayed behind with the injured. If the bugs are still around when we come back, we toss 'em another grenade and waddle off while they're stunned."

"I don't like it," Volk huffed.

"You got a better idea?" Rafe snarled, becoming tired of Volk's constantly questioning him.

"No," Volk admitted after a long moment, "We'll do it your way."

 _Damn skippy_ , Rafe thought, but refrained from saying so.

He had the sense that they'd narrowly avoided something, but he wasn't sure what. He knew it had something to do with the way Volk, Tavis and Caden had interacted. They thought that, together at least, they were superior. They were overconfident. As he looked around the dark compartment, he realized that was true of almost all of them. They thought they knew best. Just because they were better field survivalists than most, they thought they were better than everyone at everything. He wasn't sure how, but his instincts were slowly making him aware that these clones were (or one day would be) a threat to him.

As a result, in order to avoid fearing them, Rafe was beginning to hate them.


	15. Report

At first, Caden was sure he was still on the ground, still watching helplessly as the great tank stumbled backward, the promise of death in the sound of its metallic groaning. A few seconds of vague awareness brought him to the painful conclusion that the only spinning was in his head. This realization came shortly before his body forced him to consciously notice that it was in pain. Everything hurt. Jagged lightning strikes of pain shot through him from one extremity to the other, and it was impossible to pinpoint the origin of any single hurt. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

Even breathing hurt, and Caden was tempted to just keep his eyes closed and wait for his consciousness to simply abandon him again. But something was nagging at him. Something kept making him try to open his eyes and look around. Something was amiss with his reality, but he wasn't sure what it was, and he didn't particularly want to find out either. His survival instinct fought with his exhaustion.

The storm continued to rage outside, and the soft rocking of the AT-TE told him it was still being carried on current and wind, just as it had been the last time he fought his way fully to awareness. It was different this time. Things were quiet now. No one had anything to say.

A weight against his right shoulder told Caden that Theran was lying next to him, lower jaw pressed against his master for comfort, or perhaps to offer it. It was dark, the internal lighting was confined to the panels before the pilot, spotter and gunners for the tank. Even so, Caden knew that a clone crouched on his left, and he knew who it was, though he still could not comprehend how.

Caden had been unconscious when Tavis arrived, and had not heard any explanation as to how or why he'd come now to this place, just when _Fortune_ needed him the most. Caden knew he should have been able to figure it out on his own, but his brain was sluggish; thinking pained him, as though the meager reserves his body had to heal itself were being diverted by every slow thought. Thinking felt like it took physical energy; energy he could not now afford to spare.

Caden had heard that sometimes a badly injured trooper would simply go numb, his nerves overloaded, the energies he might use to send signals of anguish to his brain being used elsewhere. But that hadn't happened to him. He could feel everything, or at least it seemed that way. Maddeningly, his brain somehow found the spare energy to tell him that he was broken, battered, and bleeding internally, that without medical attention he would die.

But that was not all he knew, even with his thoughts fragmented, his mental processes slow and unresponsive to his demands that they sort themselves out and let him think clearly. He knew, as always, more than he had dared let on.

He lay still, feeling the blood in him running in places it shouldn't, feeling each break and tear inside him seem rip apart with every beat of his heart. Caden was a clone, a GAR trooper, and therefore he restrained himself from crying out. But it wasn't easy.

Though he showed no evidence of it now, Caden had once possessed one of the most unforgivable flaws of the GAR clones. By civilian standards, Caden was fearless. But by the strict standards of his kind, Caden had been a coward, lacking the courage to face the unknown and the fortitude to go into deadly situations with head high and boldness intact. Caden feared death, where most of his kind would have welcomed it, either by the GAR belief that dying for the Republic was an honor or because they realized the futility of their own existence.

Now there was something he feared more than death or pain. Caden had found something worth suffering and dying for. If he continued to lie here and do nothing, he knew that he would lose that which he would have done anything to protect and ensure the survival of.

"You always think loudly, Caden," Tavis' voice reached his ears softly in the dark, "But now your thoughts are screaming. You'll have to calm them if you want your voice to be heard."

Caden closed his eyes and sighed, trying not to let Tavis hear the hitch in his breathing when his ribs were disturbed. He might have succeeded in fooling Tavis, but not Theran. Theran pressed closer, nuzzling against Caden's neck and chirping quietly.

"There's... so much I need to say," Caden began, "So much that... you need to know."

"I'm sure Volk can fill me in," Tavis replied, and Caden found himself once again surprised by the uncommon gentleness that the other clone was capable of.

Tavis made as if to rise, but Caden urgently collected the energy it took to reach out and grab his arm. He had no strength with which to hold Tavis, but his clear anxiety was sufficient.

"No, Tavis. There are things Volk does not know, things he cannot..."

"Understand?" Tavis guessed, then tried again, "Know about?" and then he seemed to realize it, and the next thing he said was not a question, it was a statement, "Accept."

Caden let out his breath, at the same time losing the will to hold onto Tavis. He let his arm drop and nodded fractionally. Tavis remained seated, but looked around briefly. The interior of the AT-TE was large enough to carry a platoon, and the others were on the other side of the storage section, napping to pass the time as troopers usually did. Tavis settled.

"Alright, Cade. You have my attention," he said, "Report."

"Rafe," Caden said simply, knowing in his condition that he had little time and less energy to impart everything that Tavis could possibly need to know.

He was counting on Tavis' almost preternatural intuition to help him. He was not disappointed.

"Volk doesn't trust him. Nor does the rest of the squad. As for you, you are not sure."

"Theran."

"Isn't going to be happy about leaving you," Tavis answered, "But neither Rafe nor Volk will allow him to remain here with you. And we both know they're right. Theran can't help you anymore, but he can help us and, whenever this tank stops having delusions of being a boat, we're going to need it."

Caden stifled a moan as the AT-TE's rocking in the wind and water caused him to shift slightly. Pain crashed over him in waves, but he refused to go down, to let himself drown in it. Not until he'd said everything. Not until Tavis knew everything. When the pain subsided, Caden caught his breath and went on.

"Seppies."

"Have an interesting sense of timing," Tavis supplied, "Attacking a base that was down a squad and tanker crew; not to mention sending clankers out into the swamp, taking a tremendous risk in traversing unknown and possibly unstable territory. They knew you were out here. They knew we were coming. Otherwise what they did, much less the timing, doesn't make any sense. There's a spy on Morassis, someone who knows Beanie's a courier, knows the Seppies don't want him to pass on whatever it is he knows."

"My thoughts," Caden said, then struggled to organize himself for the logical conclusion.

Tavis was ahead of him, "We can't afford to trust anybody. We need to go dark, stop using radios so they can't pick up the signals, and avoid encounters, even with guys playing for our team."

Though clones almost never spoke of it, and hated the very fact that it could happen with a passion equal to their loathing of droids, it was possible for a GAR trooper to switch sides. Even a Fett clone could start working for the enemy. Even they, with their rigorous training and rules and careful upbringing and genetic lean towards absolute obedience, could be corrupted.

Nobody understood that better than Tavis and the rest of _Fortune_.

The hurt that struck Caden then, making it difficult to breathe and forcing him to ball his hands into fists to keep from crying out was not just the physical injuries, but what he knew he must say next.

He knew that the name alone would not be enough, that he had to detail his concerns. And he knew also that Tavis wouldn't want to hear it. He just hoped his leader would have the compassion not to interrupt him, to let him at least finish what he had to say.

"Spit it out, before it chokes you," Tavis prompted quietly.

Strange. Tavis and Volk often said the same things, had the same concerns, same interests and instincts, yet no one could ever accuse Volk of being too emotionally attached to his men, and it had everything to do with how he said things. With Tavis, Caden got the sense his heart bled whenever one of his own was injured or in pain or even frightened. Volk, on the surface at least, bled for nobody. That's why it had been so much easier to bring this matter up with him than Tavis.

"It's about Onoff," Caden said, his voice catching on the last word.

"He's okay," Tavis told him, "Doc says it's just his head," he smiled a little at his lame attempt at humor, "He's going to be fine, Caden."

"No," Caden corrected Tavis, struggling to suppress the shudder of pain that rippled through him, "No, he's not okay. He's not okay at all. Tavis... you can't trust him."

"Caden," there was a warning in Tavis' voice now, coupled with a new concern about Caden's mental faculties, "You can't think Off's a spy. He'd be the worst spy in history. All you'd have to do is demand to know if he's a spy, by order, and he'd tell you. He'd have to."

"Not... spy," Caden whispered, clawing to maintain his grip on reality, fighting down the urge to point out that nobody would ever think to ask Onoff such a question anyway, "It's much worse."

Tavis was silent, obviously having trouble assimilating this information. Even for Tavis, whose affinity for the Republic was subdued at the best of times, his love of the GAR virtually nonexistent ever since Onithera, the idea of something worse than a clone becoming a spy was a difficult one for him to wrap his mind around. It was contrary to everything they were born and bred to be.

But Tavis, in his usual way, wasn't thinking about himself or his kind. He was thinking of Caden, wounded, helpless and very possibly dying.

"Do Volk and Phisher know?" if Caden could answer 'yes', he knew that Tavis would go to one or the other of them for the information, rather than making Caden say it.

"Off's been acting... distant... strange, the last week. I told Volk... but I doubt if he... understood. Phish... I don't know."

"Onoff and Phisher are always together," Tavis said, "But you only mentioned Onoff as acting strange. That means Phisher has to know. It would be impossible for him not to notice something amiss."

"Rafe... mission," Caden reminded him of the many distractions which might prevent Phisher from noticing anything strange about his friend, not adding what they both knew, that Phisher wasn't a clone, that he knew so little of their lives and training before entering the field that he might not even notice if one of them was acting perfectly outlandish for one of their kind.

Tavis understood. The entire squad was suspicious of Rafe, and focused on their mission. If one of them was acting strange, it was unlikely the others would notice. Besides which, the relative closeness of the squad meant they could potentially overlook something out of place, with or without realizing it.

This was _Fortune_ , the squad full of losers nobody wanted, each and every one of them flawed beyond what regular GAR troopers were able to put up with in the normal course of duty. They were the soldiers transferred and shunted around until they wound up on Onithera; only by a bizarre turn of events had they been released from what was to be their purgatory.

"You have a theory," Tavis said finally.

Caden thought for a moment, trying to figure out how to convey his idea in the absolute fewest words he could possibly manage. Finally, he stopped trying, because the thinking seemed to take more energy than talking, and he was fast running out of reserves.

"You remember," he began slowly, "how we met Bean?"

"You know I do."

"You remember... his orders?"

"To kill us all," Tavis answered, "Of course I remember."

"And you remember, also, that he made a choice."

"He chose to disobey his orders. To not kill us," Tavis confirmed.

"Well..." Caden whispered, his vision beginning to flicker, "Onoff... does not... have... that luxury."

As he faded out, he hoped it was enough, because it was all he had.

Tavis did not ask Caden what he meant, did not demand clarification. Instead, he merely sat back, taking a shuddering breath and closing his eyes briefly. He didn't want to admit to himself that he understood what Caden was telling him. Didn't want to say he accepted Caden's concerns as legitimate.

If he was suspicious of Onoff, he had good reason for being so, and Tavis knew it.

* * *

During the week prior to _Fortune_ being assigned to this mission, Damyu had had a very strange conversation with Onoff. Nobody had ever asked him about it, and though it had seemed out of the ordinary to him, Damyu had thought nothing of it afterward.

"I want to ask you a question," Onoff had said.

Damyu was not accustomed to being asked questions. He didn't enjoy Volk's terming him as a 'moron', but he didn't really have a leg to stand on insofar as arguing with that assessment went. This was mostly because he wasn't sure what a moron actually was. That made it hard to argue with.

Besides, Volk had given him his name. Clones were almost obsessive compulsive when it came to slapping nicknames on things, but nobody before Volk had ever given Damyu a name. So his name was a mangling of the words "damn you". So what? He'd been called worse, and never in what Caden had called 'terms of irritated endearment'. He wasn't sure what that meant, but he did know that Volk seemed to like having him around, even though Volk was usually yelling at him.

In any case, Damyu was a very simple fellow, a little slower than the rest at the best of times, and with too much curiosity for his own good. That curiosity had nearly gotten him killed more than once. But he had little actual knowledge to show for his massive inquisitiveness, and never really had anything to say when plans were being made because it was all really rather beyond him.

"Why would you want to ask me a question?" Damyu had asked.

"Because you're simple. Your view of the world is uncomplicated. Most important, you don't see in shades of gray," Onoff answered.

"I do when it gets dark. Doesn't everyone?" Damyu wanted to know.

"No. I... wait... what? No, never mind. That's beside the point."

Damyu shrugged.

"The point is, I want to ask your opinion on something."

"Alright..." Damyu said, getting the impression that Onoff was profoundly distressed about something.

"Okay, hypothetically, if someone who outranked you told you to do something, you'd do it, right?"

"I don't know what that means."

Onoff sighed. Damyu could tell he was exasperated, as people usually were when they talked to him. But he could also see that Onoff was nervous, uneasy. He kept looking around like he expected something to fall from the sky at any moment. It seemed like everybody was scared of something.

"Okay... um... say Sergeant Rafe ordered you to do something. Would you do it?"

"Well... he _is_ my sergeant now," Damyu replied, "But what does Volk have to say?"

"He doesn't know. Nobody told him."

"That seems bad," Damyu said.

"Would you forget about Volk for a second?" Onoff hissed, then muttered, "I swear, it's like you don't even paying attention when people talk to you."

Forgetting about Volk seemed a very strange request. To Damyu, Volk was a known. He had been their leader for quite some time. Damyu had learned to trust him, and had also learned that it was unwise to challenge him. Rafe was an unknown. To Damyu's simple mind, everyone was a different person. Instead of seeing one big mass of person, Damyu saw every clone as an individual. His reasoning was based in time and space. They were not all doing the exact same thing at the exact same time and they were unable to occupy exactly the same space at the same time. He determined that they must not all be the same. Maybe the logic was fractured, but it was essentially correct. In any case, when Damyu saw Rafe, he saw not just another of his kind, not just someone like him only of higher rank. Rafe was a stranger, whose motivations were unknown and behaviors were unpredictable. Thus it seemed to him that Onoff was asking an impossible question.

"Clearly this is too difficult for you," Onoff sighed again, sounding more agitated than ever.

"What am I being told to do? Is it something I want to do anyway?"

"No," Onoff said quickly, "It's something you really don't want to do. But a sergeant ordered you to. He told you not to ever tell anyone else. Nobody can counter the order because nobody knows about it. Would you do it? Even though you didn't want to?"

"I really don't understand what you're getting at..."

"Never mind!" Onoff spat suddenly, getting up and stalking away angrily.

 _He's scared,_ Damyu thought to himself, _Why is he so scared?_

He remembered looking toward the sky that Onoff had been repeatedly glancing at. It was dark, heavy storm clouds had been gathering. A low ache in Damyu's ears said the air pressure was dropping. Nobody had ever told him about air pressure and storms. He just knew. The wind had picked up too, and it smelled and tasted more of rain than usual. Usually it was sluggish, kind of muddy, moldy. But the wind blowing through was fresh, sweeping in clean.

Damyu had decided that the changing weather must be what had Onoff all twitchy.

Now, with time to do nothing but think, Damyu was no longer so sure.


	16. Return to the Wild

They exited the tank in pairs. Volk and Theran took the lead, with Volk prepared to throw a flash-bang. But it proved unnecessary, the insects had not followed the progress of the AT-TE during the storm and subsequent flood. They must have gotten lost somewhere along the line. Volk wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing, but it made him uneasy not knowing where the swarm had gone off to. He hoped it had drowned.

Only a very few had managed to get through or around his armor, but those had been quite sufficient to inform him of the very real danger posed by the swarm. And too, he had been uncomfortably aware for some time before the storm of how antsy both the Mammoth Slug and Theran had been, like they sensed something more than a mere rainstorm. Theran was not unused to changing weather, and Lady surely shouldn't have been afraid of her own planet's weather, not wild born and raised as she'd been.

Onoff, sufficiently recovered to travel, came out next, with Phisher beside him. Volk and Theran had split from each other and spread into a V-formation from the tank, now Onoff and Phisher moved out in the same way. Volk and Theran moved farther from the tank, and farther apart.

Doc and Damyu were next, followed by Tavis and Rafe and, finally, Garm and Bean. Only Garm and Bean did not split up, and did not advance the formation. Bean was their mission, they would take no risks with him, keeping him at the center of their squad, with Garm beside him at all times. If Bean felt offense at the safety measures they were taking with his life, he gave no indication of it.

Rafe started to reach for his radio to let Nattan know they were out and the area seemed clear, but Tavis grabbed at his elbow and whispered something to him. Rafe shrugged him off and said something in evident anger, but Volk was too far to hear either man distinctly. He was moderately surprised when Rafe climbed back into the AT-TE, and cocked his head curiously in Onoff's direction.

Onoff shrugged, looking back at Doc, who gestured to indicate that something was wrong with the radios. Or wrong with using them. Volk might never have gotten around to considering it on his own, but he quickly rewound events in mind, and remembered noticing a whispered conversation between Caden and Tavis. Caden had told Tavis something, something that evidently made him not want the radios used.

It took Volk just slightly longer to figure out why Tavis had waited until now. Keyed up and focused on survival and mission success, Rafe would be more likely to take the advice of an outsider, one whom he doubtless felt himself to be in competition with. Volk smiled inwardly, knowing what it was like to go up against Tavis. When all else had failed to get through, Tavis had nearly drowned Volk. He wondered vaguely what it would take to convince Rafe that he could not compete with Tavis and win.

He caught Tavis' eye and inclined his head slightly, acknowledging that he knew, that he understood. Tavis dipped his head, and then turned towards the tank as Rafe climbed back out and jumped to the ground. Rafe gave Tavis a look, unreadable beneath the helmet.

Volk's own combative nature blinded him to the aggression Rafe showed towards Tavis.

But Phisher was not blind to it. Phisher might not have been a clone, but he knew how they interacted with one another under normal circumstances. As chaotic as these clones seemed, they were still essentially the norm for GAR troopers in some ways. And Phisher knew that Rafe shouldn't be reacting to Tavis with such obvious abhorrence. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Phisher was no Caden, his logical leaps were limited. But he had been set to investigating Rafe, and so noticed clearly anything he did, everything about him. And too, he remembered the unsettled nature of the ranks of _Fortune Actual_ back on Onithera, so he had a perfect frame of reference.

The first thing that came to him was that there should have been no conflict on Rafe's side of things. Tavis was no threat to him, Rafe was a sergeant assigned to _Fortune_ , Tavis had been demoted to PFC and was here only by chance. Tavis could not take the squad from Rafe. Even Volk, vicious as a feral thing, would not go against the law as laid down by the GAR.

The soul of _Fortune Actual_ might belong to Tavis, but its body was bound to the orders of Rafe.

Tavis, for his part, was gratified that not one member of the squad felt the need to come to his defense when Rafe snapped at him. He did not need their help to deal with Rafe, and they all knew it.

"They don't know about me, do they?" Tavis asked of Rafe as they prepared to move out, "Nobody's told them."

"I was told nobody would dare, and I wasn't about to have that be my first act as their sergeant."

"Good call," Tavis told him, "They'd have eaten you alive."

"You seem very sure of their devotion," Rafe remarked.

"No, Sergeant," Tavis corrected him, "I am certain only of their wildness. The clones you have known up to now are all perfectly tame. These are not. You'll need to depend upon that fact if you want to survive. Perhaps you don't want to listen to me, but hear this if nothing else: trust _Fortune_ to survive at any cost. Trust their instincts, trust their experience."

"Is that what you did?" Rafe inquired sharply.

"I am alive, Sergeant. That alone should be enough to answer your question."

The squad moved out at traveling speed in a roughly column formation without Rafe's having to tell them. Volk moved into the point position, with Doc flanking one side and Damyu at the other. Theran moved behind them, temporarily taking place of Garm on the second fireteam. Garm and Bean moved next, with Rafe behind and slightly to one side. Tavis moved directly behind him, with Phisher and Onoff flanking him on either side.

Rafe didn't like Volk being point guard so many times in a row, but he wasn't about to assign Tavis that position. Not that he was at all pleased to have Tavis behind him either. But he couldn't get rid of Tavis for a number of reasons, not the least of which being that he had one man down already.

A greater reason had to do with morale. Rafe was not a stupid man, he saw the currents and flow of the squad. Before Tavis' arrival, the feel of the squad had been rough, with jagged edges ready to rip apart any unwary soul who entered their midst. But the currents had softened, emotionally the clones were calmer now, and therefore easier to handle. Interesting that they should become more visibly stable now they were in the field, on their own, with danger on all sides. Volk especially.

Rafe had been given the records of the troopers he was assigned to, but their personalities were obviously not in those records. Volk was even now essentially a mystery. His records sounded like about three different people. When Rafe read one incident report, he got the impression of a clone who was very willful and even wrathful in comparison with others of his kind. Another incident report made him seem more of the skittish type, who lashed out because of nerves rather than any need to dominate. Still another incident led Rafe to the conclusion that Volk didn't really give much of a rip one way or the other about his own kind. Another spoke of a clone with unusually high devotion to his squad. Taken in context, they should have shown that Volk's character had changed over time in response to experiences. But that's not what the records indicated. Volk was all over the map, behaviorally speaking. Rafe hoped Volk was every bit as intelligent as his records led one to believe. And also that Volk was in something other than a wildly destructive mood. If he was in one of his more violent moods, there was no telling what he might decide they should do. If he was in such a mood, Rafe wasn't sure that Volk could be controlled, especially not with all of _Fortune_ behind him.

He got the sense that, if he said the wrong thing, they would all turn on him like a pack of rabid animals. Tavis had said it, _Fortune_ intended to survive. And they would kill anything that stood in the way of that. On that point, the records had been very clear.

* * *

Keeping to formation proved to be difficult, given the terrain. Individual clones were obliged to swing wide around potential mires, or move in closer when the terrain became too steep to allow them to move apart. The column turned into a line, then back into a column as required. All the time, Volk was in the lead, keeping a sharp eye out for ground more hazardous than usual, or any sign of droids. He also was wary for any other signs of life. After speaking with Tavis, Rafe had revealed concerns about the potential for a traitor somewhere in the GAR ranks, someone who had given away details of _Fortune_ 's mission and destination.

The GPS of the AT-TE had given only a sketchy notion of where they'd stopped, miles off their course. But they were not lost. All clones were possessed of an excellent sense of direction, and _Fortune Actual_ had practiced using this sense more than most. Combining their estimate of how far they'd traveled, and in what direction, with Theran's own ability to catch the scent of clones over a long distance, they had set off in a somewhat westerly direction, adjusting as terrain required to avoid danger spots.

Behind Volk, Doc and Damyu did their level best to maintain visual contact with him, but it wasn't easy. They were often hip-deep in water, with mist going over their heads in places, making visual contact almost impossible to maintain at all times. Added to their difficulties was the mud beneath the water, which was thick enough to make pulling boots free of it an effort, slowing their speed greatly.

Nobody complained, but they were forced into close proximity by terrain and could therefore hear one another panting with the effort, struggling against the high humidity as much as anything. At least the hard work was keeping them oblivious of the steadily dropping temperature, especially Theran, whose home planet was much warmer than Morassis even during the wet season.

Volk knew he had to be extra alert, for the circumstances made it impossible for them to quickly take cover. They were ready to drop at a moment's notice, but they had nowhere to go. They could not drop to their bellies or else they'd be underwater, and a crouch would be almost as dangerous. Worse was the mud, which would slow them down if they tried to dive for cover behind a tree or rock.

Volk, topping a low rise, looked over his shoulder. He caught the eye of Theran, who chirped quietly and bobbed his head. This wasn't the first time Volk had checked with the Onitheran. He wasn't as confident of Theran as Caden was, not as in sync. The fact was, despite Caden's efforts to integrate the beast, Theran had worked almost solely with him. Caden was Theran's official team leader, so it was only natural that he give the Onitheran orders most of the time. Now Volk was realizing what a tremendous oversight he'd made concerning Theran.

He didn't know if he needed to check the Onitheran more or less often than he was doing, or if the beast was reading into his actions more than he wanted. Having Theran in the squad had always given him confidence, but having Theran on his team only made him uneasy.

But what made him most uneasy was looking back and being able to see no farther than Bean and Garm, half-vanished in the swirling mists. He simply had to trust that Rafe, Tavis, Phisher and Onoff were in back of them somewhere. He didn't like being unable to see them, but the only alternative would be for the squad to be practically piled on top of itself, a risky formation, given the circumstances. Entirely too risky, Volk determined, and Rafe seemed to agree.

But Rafe had not been wrong in his assessment. All of these dangers were ones Volk was built to cope with. These were risks he knew how to weigh and measure. This was an unease he was oddly comfortable enduring. For so long, he'd been confined to a base, among clones he didn't know how to relate to, had forgotten how to act like, working for people he neither respected nor understood.

Whether it was by his very nature, or if he had learned it, Volk was as at home in the wilderness as stars are at home in the skies, and it only made sense that the squad would follow him. He tried not to think about the fact that it couldn't last. That, eventually, he'd have to enter into what he considered to be the lion's den.

Volk continued to pause at the top of the rise, though he returned his attention to the landscape ahead of him. He flattened against a tree trunk to make a lesser target of himself, just in case anyone or anything out there was interested in taking a shot at him. The rest of the squad had halted in their respective positions, but Rafe moved up the ranks to join Volk. Tavis remained at his post.

"See anything?" Rafe inquired, crouching just shy of the actual ridge top to keep out of view.

"Many things," Volk replied factually, "None of them worth relating."

Rafe exhaled loudly, and resisted the obvious urge to say something. Volk smiled beneath his helmet. He enjoyed seeing Rafe squirm in annoyance and discomfort. It pleased him in a way that could not be described as entirely fair. What amused him most was that Rafe clearly knew he was helpless to prevent such irritation, because he had no actual means with which to control Volk, nor had he earned the place of respect that Tavis had. Not that Volk didn't enjoy annoying Tavis as well, but the difference there was that Tavis was more than capable of shoving right back if Volk pushed too hard. Rafe simply didn't have the experience or the comprehension to deal with it, and Volk knew it.

His entertainment was cut short however, as he caught a flash of movement in the valley below.

"Correction," he said, at once absolute in his focus, fully suspicious of what he saw, oblivious of Rafe moving up to stand beside him, "There is something out there. Something large, moving fast in the water."

"Mister, with the exception of where we're currently standing, everything is in the water; be more specific," Rafe snapped impatiently.

With a slight jerk of his rifle, Volk indicated a deeper pool ahead and to the left of their position.

"I don't see anything," Rafe said, in a tone Volk did not like much at all.

"And I don't see the use of you as a sergeant," Volk retorted, "And yet, here you stand."

"Really? Here and now? That's what you want?"

"What I want obviously has nothing to do with it," Volk hissed right back, low voiced so as not to be overheard by the others, "If I'd gotten what _I_ wanted, you never would have come here."

"And if I had what _I_ wanted, that treacherous bastard you call Tavis would be dead," Rafe snarled, his anger matching Volk's instantly, "But we can't all have what we want, can we?"

Volk glared at him. His first impulse was to swing rifle and club the sergeant across the skull. But he thought better of it. However much they detested one another, Volk and Rafe were not enemies. Yet.

"I suggest you keep those notions to yourself," Volk warned.

"And I suggest you keep your personal feelings inside of your person," Rafe returned, "Anyway, keep watching. If you catch another glimpse of that... whatever..." he trailed off, half turning towards the squad.

"Yes?" Volk questioned.

"You're point guard. I'm trusting your instincts."

Volk raised a thoughtful eyebrow as Rafe returned to his position in the formation. Then he smiled to himself again. Assuming Volk could restrain himself from killing Rafe, the man might just make a good squad sergeant yet. Perhaps not for _Fortune_ , but for someone anyway.


	17. Forget the Shark

For a seemingly interminable number of seconds the squad waited motionless. Bean, crouched beside Garm, could feel the latter was keyed up entirely too much, practically shivering with the effort to restrain himself from whatever it was he wanted to be doing.

Unlike the rest of them, Bean had always been absolutely everything a clone should be, except for his size. Garm and the others had never taken much notice of Bean's missing an inch in height (and roughly ten pounds in weight), but it had probably become obvious to Garm the instant they began to travel that Bean was unable to match him stride for stride; to keep with him, Bean occasionally had to take a sort of hopping step.

Because of the varying terrain, Bean knew it was obvious only to Garm because he was walking right beside Bean. As a pilot, Bean was equipped with less gear than the rest of them, possessing the bare minimum of rifle, pistol and surprisingly little else. Lartys carried med-kits on them, so their pilots and gunners didn't have to. The vehicles also carried rations so their crews didn't. Bean had equipped himself with these items before heading out, but what he was carrying was emergency backups, the only thing the base had on hand, and these were smaller than the norm.

Bean knew he should have enough for what they were doing, but it couldn't help but concern him. From the moment they stepped out of the AT-TE, to whenever this mission was over, Garm was Bean's guardian, and he knew only too well that physical protection was only one aspect of keeping someone alive. Bean just hoped Garm wouldn't have to give up anything too important for him, for what he knew.

Garm nudged Bean with his elbow. Blinking, Bean realized that the squad was moving forward once more. Garm arose, and Bean followed his lead, staying right with him, the almost manic tension radiating off Garm keeping Bean focused and moving swiftly enough to stay even.

For Bean, being a GAR trooper was essentially a religion, complete with its share of practices and strict rules that must be followed. Sergeants, sitting at the top of the hierarchy he could expect to routinely associate with, were nothing less than deities that were to be served, followed without question and even adored. Perhaps not all clones thought this way, but doubtless many of them did. To decide that he didn't care what his sergeant thought was akin to blaspheming his deity.

The other option, one simply too horrible to contemplate, was that his view of the world had begun to change the moment he met _Fortune Actual_. Nothing is more utterly terrible than to see one's religion begin to crumble in the face of a newly discovered (or previously ignored) reality. And the reality for the squad Bean had once nearly died for was very different from the one he experienced every day.

In their world, sergeants _could_ be ignored. Lieutenants could be defied. Captains could be questioned. And Jedi were something less than revered. Before meeting them, Bean hadn't realized such things could even be considered by those among the ranks. At least, not aside from deserters. And, whatever they were, _Fortune_ was not a squad of deserters.

The worst part for Bean was that he'd started to agree with them. The presence of Rafe, the very fact that this clone of all the ones in the GAR was the sergeant in charge of _Fortune_ , that Bean was forced to consciously endure the reality of his continued existence was only an additional hammer to apply to the crumbling altar upon which, for his entire life, Bean had placed the GAR.

Lost in his wandering thoughts, Bean didn't realize that he had much bigger, more immediate problems.

Lurking just beneath the surface of the water they were descending into was a predator of great power and stealth. Its name translated to 'Armored Shark'. It was so called for the sectioned shell running the length of its body, which allowed it mobility and also protection from all other threats save one. The Temmie's were primarily fish eaters as Caden had guessed, but their favorite sort of fish came in the form of these ten to twelve foot beasts which, underneath all the slime and algae, were a striking white with assorted dark gray or brown markings on their head and fins.

Though huge and strong enough to tear a clone in half with a shake of its massive head, the Armored Shark wasn't assessing the clones as a food source. It preferred to swallow its prey whole, and they were very much too large for that sort of thing. Up until recent years, its favored prey had been the Anuri, which averaged about half the size of a clone trooper. More recently, the Armored Shark had been forced to feed on smaller fish. The fiercely territorial shark had mistaken these odd creature as one of its own kind. It did not immediately attack solely because it was a male, and those seldom attacked females (which are smaller than the males), and it wasn't sure what it was looking at.

Though he didn't know it, it was this creature that Volk had spotted in the water. The clones were avoiding the deepest parts of the water, sticking to the shallows inasmuch as that was possible. At times, the 'shallow' water was up to their waists, plenty deep enough for the shark to swim into, should it want to.

The shark, like many of his kind, had been uprooted from his home by the flood and carried into an area where it would normally have been simply impossible for him to survive, the pool formed by the valley was simply too small to support enough prey for the shark. But it was here the flood had brought it.

A flicker of light in a deeper pool of water drew Garm's attention. It was more than the fact that the motion was eye catching. Garm didn't process why it drew his attention at first. What he did know was that there was familiarity, he somehow recognized what he was seeing, and didn't feel afraid of it. Curiosity about exactly what the familiar thing was drew him slightly closer, but he knew that danger could lurk in the water, and you shouldn't get too close. So he stood a few feet back from the deep, remaining in water that was only ankle deep, looking for the light motion to come again, so he could identify it.

"What is it?" Bean inquired, noting uneasily that the squad had not yet noticed their hesitation, and was moving on in spite of them.

"I dunno," Garm replied, then grunted, "Probably nothing. A trick of the light, maybe."

Beneath the surface, the shark nudged aside debris, moving towards them. If that was another shark, there was something extremely wrong with it. The Armored Shark had no compassion for its fellow sharks. On deciding this one was injured or ill, it took quick, decisive action.

A sudden flash, water splashing upward and outward. Bean reacted, lunging backward, but not far. The mud prevented him from actually leaving the ground easily. Garm crossed the distance between them, coming to stand with Bean even as he brought his rifle around to aim towards the thing in the water. It was always Garm's first instinct to kill anything that startled him.

But the thing in the water fell short of Bean and splashed back into the water before Garm could fire. It flicked its tail, disappearing quickly beneath the muddy surface.

The commotion had attracted the attention of the rest of the squad, but they were too far away to see much of anything. Bean shifted his weight slightly, which proved to be a mistake. The mud gave way beneath him and he slipped. He hit the ground with a splash, and the shark turned towards the sound at once. Garm couldn't see the shark at his angle, its fin did not part the surface, and he continued to aim in the general direction he'd seen it go.

When it lunged from the water, Garm didn't have time to adjust his aim. But someone else did. A beam of bright light sliced through the air and cut through the center mass of the shark. It slammed down onto the shallow water, splashing mud everywhere. It thrashed, beached in the too shallow water. Its head struck against Bean as he was getting to his feet, knocking him flat a second time.

Garm shot the thing in the head, repeatedly, until it quit thrashing and lay still.

"Shit," Garm hissed, "Beanie, you in one piece?"

"Yeah," Bean replied, "It just dinged my armor."

Glancing at Bean, Garm noted the triangular dent in the calf plate of Bean's armor, about an inch across at the widest point. A single tooth of the shark had struck the armor as it was flipping around. An exchanged look between Garm and Bean said the both of them knew he was lucky that it had only been one tooth, otherwise he might not have had a leg anymore.

Letting out his breath, Garm cast about for who it was who'd actually checked the thing mid-flight. It didn't surprise him to see Tavis with blaster pistol drawn. Satisfied that the thing was dead, Tavis holstered the pistol and came in for a closer look.

"Some kind of shark," Garm told Bean, as if he'd asked, "About six feet long... from the movement and muscle development... juvenile most likely."

He turned his head as Doc came over to make his own assessment. Doc agreed with Garm. A mechanic by training, experience and natural tendencies had made Doc a passable medic. Working with beasts of burden and Theran had taught him to recognize juvenile type movement and development on a number of species, from which he could draw generalizations. Garm's knowledge was much more basic.

"Well," Tavis remarked, joining the others, "That explains Temmie."

"It does? How?" Phisher asked.

None of them questioned Tavis' knowledge of the Temmies. All the ground troopers stationed on Morassis had been made aware of the Temmies. Even though Tavis had not been with _Fortune Actual_ at the time that Caden and Theran had succeeded in actually killing one, he knew as much about them as any other trooper. Tavis, being who he was, he actually probably knew more.

"Temmie's a fish eater. That's a fish. But it's not only got armor plating, its white with dark marks. Marks very similar to our armor. Caden couldn't figure out why something with fish teeth and spearing legs would be hunting us for food. But you just explained it," he looked at Garm as he said it.

"I did?" Garm was pretty sure he hadn't explained anything.

"You and Bean. You both know things in the water can be dangerous. We're in hostile territory, so we're being extra cautious. But both of you wandered over here and into the danger zone without batting an eye. You recognized the color and pattern of GAR armor."

"What? And we thought somebody was having a bit of a swim?" Garm shook his head, "I'm afraid you're wrong on this one, Tavis. I wasn't thinking there was a trooper in there."

"That's because you didn't consciously know what you'd seen."

"Come again?"

"I don't know the terms for it, but I do know that sometimes you see something and recognize it without knowing what it is. Like there's two different parts of your brain. What you saw with your eyes went through the part of your brain that is very simple. The part that says 'dangerous' before you even know why. You hear a sound, your brain says 'danger' and you drop. Less than a second later, you shout 'grenade' because it's finally wandered to the part of your brain that has more specific classification."

"So what?" Phisher wanted to know.

"Garm and Bean saw the color or the pattern, but didn't really know what they'd seen. The part of their brain that says danger or not danger said 'meh' or maybe even 'good thing'. Good thing, in this case, being an ally, a fellow trooper. Most of their caution switched off because their brains told them it wasn't dangerous."

"My brain was wrong then," Garm commented.

"Damn straight," Rafe agreed, speaking for the first time, "Which is why you need to be careful until you know for sure what you're seeing," he looked pointedly at Garm and Bean, "Unidentified is dangerous, motion is hostile, and we shoot hostile."

"I don't think I understand," Phisher admitted, speaking to Tavis.

"You think I do?" Tavis shrugged, sounding almost irritated, "You think there's a course for this stuff? It's just what's in my head all the time, and you asked."

"Your head must be a very busy place," Damyu said, sounding somewhat awestruck.

"Very crowded sometimes," Tavis replied, nodding, "It's hard to think when you've got too many thoughts."

"I never have that problem," Damyu said cheerfully.

"Yeah, we know you don't, brother," Doc smirked., "Must be nice being you,"

"I like it."

"Hey!" Volk snapped, managing to be both loud and quiet at the same time, "Morons! You through staring at the fishies or do you need five more minutes?"

"I bet his brain is never crowded either," Doc remarked dryly.

"Doubtful," Phisher agreed.

Tavis didn't comment, lost in thoughts of his own again. It seemed to him that it must be very nice indeed to not have thoughts crowding in your mind so much that you felt real, physical pressure from them. Sometimes thoughts came hard and fast, and hit like sledgehammers. Other times, it was like he was drowning in them. Tavis had realized long ago that not everybody had thoughts violently attacking them from the inside, and it seemed to him he remembered a time when it wasn't happening to him either. It wasn't just a case of over analysis, it was that he couldn't stop the trains of thought constantly entering and exiting his consciousness, even if he wanted to. It was very fatiguing, and it also made it difficult to focus on what was in front of him.

"You know, you could try talking to people," Doc remarked to Tavis, "Helps me think things through to talk aloud."

Tavis grunted noncommittally, pausing and looking over his shoulder at the pool of water. If he was going to say anything in response, it was interrupted before he began. Rafe reached out a hand to grab Bean's arm and help him up, which produced a reaction as unexpected as it was explosive. Bean let out a yell, twisted from Rafe's grasp and whirled to face him, drawing his pistol in the same motion and leveling it at the sergeant's chest.

"Never _!_ " he growled, with ferocity to match Volk on his worst day, " _Never_ touch me. You got that?"

So much for Bean being the perfect GAR soldier.

Equally bizarre was Rafe's utterly passive response. He merely dipped his head in acknowledgment of Bean's demand, and went on his way, leaving the others to figuratively scratch their heads and fall in. Tavis wasn't ready to let it go, but he would save the questions for later. He intended to settle the disturbance in his own mind before he went meddling in the affairs of others.

The thing that disturbed him the most, and that he had no intention of sharing, was that he had known about the shark. Somehow, he had known it was going to go for Bean and not Garm. He had known exactly where to aim, and simply waited for the shark to spring into his line of sight.

Without that knowledge, he could not possibly have hit it at all, given the time he had to work with and the distance involved. In his head, he remembered what had been said to him when he was only partially conscious after being knocked out of the tree earlier. He remembered clearly what that dream version of Bean had said.

 _I was bitten by a shark. It was trying to kill me._

At the time, Tavis had not been aware that there were any sharks on Morassis. He shuddered, and fell into formation as the squad moved on.


	18. Second Thoughts

Bean's heart thundered in his ears. He'd never in his life talked back to a sergeant, certainly not the way he'd addressed Rafe. He'd been scared to death (still was), but for some reason he'd felt in the instant the sergeant touched him that Rafe was a danger, not only to him, but the rest of _Fortune_. He didn't know why he'd felt the need to threaten Rafe. He didn't know where he'd gotten the words to speak when his mind had been white with utter terror at what he was doing. Perhaps he was picking up some bad habits as a result of hanging around _Fortune_.

Bean realized his life had become intolerably complicated ever since he'd first laid eyes on the squad back on Onithera. Sometimes he thought he should have shot them when he'd had the chance. He had not noticed how much he himself had changed since Onithera. Back then, it would have been unthinkable to him to talk back to a sergeant, no matter who they were. Sergeants were Gods then. The exchange with Rafe was a wake up call.

He could not undo in an instant what had been his training from the start. But he could also do nothing to stop the tide of change within himself, the way for which had been paved by his past, with the catalyst being what happened on Onithera. He was not the person he used to be. In fact, he was no longer sure exactly just who he was, or what he was becoming. That scared him, almost as much as talking back to a sergeant.

He'd done his best to shake it off for the moment, wondering what sort of punishment he could expect for his inexcusable outburst when they reached a base and Rafe related what he'd done. Frankly, he was surprised the sergeant hadn't struck him, just backed off quietly.

Now, as he fell in beside Garm to continue the day's slog through knee-deep mud, it occurred to Bean that the man he'd addressed was not the Rafe he knew.

The Rafe he knew was a mean son-of-a-bitch. It was Rafe who had gotten the other cadets to gang up on Bean. Rafe had always been the first to mock him during training, the most vocal in his statements about the small clone's relative worth and ability. But even then, Rafe had the ability to get men to follow him, until the fateful evening when taunts, shoves and insults had turned into bloody warfare.

Bean remembered registering the threat from the other cadets, but he could never be sure if he read the danger correctly, or if he'd merely had enough of being pushed around and decided to fight back. What he did remember was breaking Rafe's nose with his elbow, knocking the larger cadet backward. He'd never meant for Rafe to hit the back of his head on the edge of one of the bunks, but that's what had happened. Rafe had gone down hard.

After that, Bean had no clear recollection about the order or nature of events. He'd fought more with instinct than thinking, there hadn't been time to consider his actions, just fight for his life. He learned only later that Rafe had been stepped on and kicked by his fellow cadets in their eagerness to get at Bean. At a certain point in their training, Bean knew, all cadets became dangerous. They had the ability and training to kill, but had yet to learn proper restraint. Considering his earlier actions, it seemed to Bean that maybe they never did.

Rafe always been smarter than the others. Smart enough to be the ringleader without anyone outside the group being aware of it. Even instructors had overlooked him, seeing him as too laid back and quiet to be of any use in a leadership position.

It was an act, and everyone who'd ever been teamed with Rafe knew it. Rafe was quietly aggressive. As a cadet, he'd been a powder keg waiting to go off. A wicked sort of intelligence existed behind the dark eyes, swift judgment but patient calculation. If it had been anyone else but Rafe that day, Bean might not have escalated the fight into something deadly. Back then, he'd feared Rafe. Everybody did back then. He was the silent bully, who didn't have to swagger or throw his weight around or yell or snarl at anybody. With just a look, he could make blood run cold.

But that was then.

Bean had seen things since. He knew what real danger was like. What real empty hatred and savage fury looked like. Rafe was nothing in comparison with the _Death Squad_ , the squad of clones on Onithera who had tried to kill Bean. And not only him, but everyone they could get their hands on. Bean knew that Rafe was not even in that category. More than fear, Bean harbored anger, a painful resentment of what had been done to him, what he'd suffered through even before that final incident which had torn him away from the troopers he'd trained with and his future as a ground trooper, altering the course of his life to what it now was.

Really though, the anger had grown dim over time. Turned out that Bean was a damned good pilot. If he hadn't become a pilot, it was probable that _Fortune Actual_ would be dead. It had been his hesitation to kill them when he was told to that had saved their lives for long enough for the truth behind the lie told on Onithera to get out. Possibly a lot of good clones would be dead if not for him, truth be known.

The moment of rage he'd felt earlier when he'd considered killing Rafe had been a mere ghost, a phantom of anger long since spent. His outburst had been born of frustration, not true anger.

 _Anger never got anyone anywhere, Lad._

His former sergeant had told him that. More than once. He'd been right, of course.

Once, Bean had used his anger as fuel in combat, every target he helped take out was like a release for it. But then one day he'd realized the anger didn't go away when he told it to. The overflow hit his co-pilots, his gunners, the other pilots. It ate away at who he was, until he didn't even recognize himself anymore. But he hadn't known what to do. Not until _Fortune_.

The squad had been abandoned, left to die on a planet at the hands of nature, far from the war they'd been trained to fight in. But they hadn't come back angry. Even though Bean had nearly killed them, they didn't retaliate. They were violent, seemingly unruly, yet brutally effective. They had something Bean didn't, and he'd never been sure what it was, but he knew it wasn't anger that drove them. They had found another way to be, a way not to destroy themselves while they fought the enemy.

Bean still didn't know what it was that made them different. Better.

What Bean did know was that it was the incident as a cadet that had led to his transfer. Pilots were in high demand because they were harder to come by than regular ground troops. You couldn't breed for them, just had to test and see if one clone out of a hundred had what it took.

Training had proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that Bean would throw everything he had into whatever was asked of him. And so, he was put on a new training course, which was of necessity a bit rushed because he ought to have already been halfway through it. Maybe every clone had the potential in them, but Bean had exercised that to its fullest. And he made the grade.

So the story went, anyway. But Bean had never forgotten Rafe, or any of the cadets who had tried so hard to end his career before it had a chance to begin.

Bean had never mentioned any of this to anyone, for the obvious reason that to do so would be to risk not only his neck, but every cadet who'd been there that day. Not to mention the instructors, who could have gotten in trouble for incompetence and inability to control their cadets. The GAR obviously could not tolerate clones who were willing and so inclined to go around trying to kill one another, but the instructors who knew what exactly had happened had sort of... swept the whole thing under a rug. Bean had sometimes wondered how many such incidents got swept under rugs, including -but not limited to- the time that the entirety of _Fortune Actual_ had ganged up on a captain and knocked him out.

The incident involving Bean and Rafe, while not ignored, had been carefully worded to avoid anyone getting in trouble over it. Bean was quietly transferred, and he never saw any of those clones again. Until now.

Amazingly, Garm didn't ask Bean what he'd thought he was doing. He didn't ask if there was something about Rafe he should know. He didn't ask Bean if he should avoid touching him in the future. He didn't ask Bean what he was so afraid of. Garm, bless him, asked Bean no questions at all.

* * *

Darkness brought with it the threat of Temmies, and perhaps other things the clones didn't even know about. Garm was most sensitive to it of the clones. His pacing appeared restless or nervous, but it was purposeful. They were in the open, danger could come from any direction. There was no real place to put a sentry other than the outer edges of the group. Rafe selected himself and Garm for the first watch, Volk and Theran would take the second. But Theran had other ideas.

Theran was a predator, a nocturnal hunter. And he was also a wild animal, no matter how intelligent and cooperative he seemed. The call of the night was a strong one, and Theran often answered. Assigned to guard something, he would never leave it. If battle was imminent or he felt it probable that an ambush might occur, Theran would stay. But evidently he felt no obligations to the squad this evening, for he suddenly lifted his head, made a screech-roaring sound at seemingly nothing and scampered off into the dark. Perhaps he was looking for Caden.

"Can't you call him back?" Rafe asked, "We need him."

"I could," Volk (whom Caden had charged with the care of Theran in his absence) replied evenly, "But I'd need a damn good reason, or next time he might not be so willing to come back. He's not a beast of burden, you know."

"But you do consider him your subordinate," Rafe countered.

"Of course. But I wouldn't order any of my men to give up sleeping without a good reason. And neither would you, I don't think. For Theran, exploration and stalking around the night is natural, normal, and actually healthier for us. If he scents a Temmie, he'll come on the run and warn us. He's a more useful guard -and scout for that matter- out there than he is back here. And, unlike any of us, he's not all that likely to be spotted or shot. And he'd never get himself stuck in quicksand."

Rafe grumbled a little, but accepted the explanation Volk offered. Once that was settled, Volk almost immediately went to sleep, or pretended to.

Rather than settle down like the others, Tavis came and stood beside Rafe. His presence made Rafe's skin crawl, but he was getting pretty good at silencing the urge to kill the other clone.

"You and Bean," Tavis said, "What's your problem?"

"Maybe he just doesn't like being touched," Rafe muttered.

"No way. Beanie's one of the least volatile clones I've ever met. He doesn't bear a grudge against anybody," Tavis turned his head slightly towards Rafe, "Except you."

"I tried to kill him," Rafe said quietly, "He's never forgiven me. Nor have I ever once given him a reason to."

"You're going to have to clarify that," Tavis said, and Rafe recognized the tone in his voice as being that of one who was now inclined towards murder.

The statement had the effect of a lightning bolt as it forced Rafe to remember.

He had been the first clone Bean had ever truly struck.

The blow to the face had been bad enough, even now he winced to remember the explosion of pain that had overwhelmed his sense of reality and balance. It had been the first time he'd sensed something beyond himself. When Bean connected, Rafe had, for just a moment, known just what his smaller brother was. Not what he was thinking, more what he was feeling. The blow had been struck in rage and fear and frustration, a chaos of feeling tossed into the single fluid movement they'd all practiced a hundred times over, but never like that. Never with such force. Never on each other.

And then the blinding flash as agony surged through him when his head hit the edge of the bunk frame behind him. His thoughts had gone blank as void spots danced in his vision. He'd gone down. And then... he wasn't clear. Somewhere between awareness and death, he distantly recalled being struck repeatedly while he was down (it had been explained to him later that his own brothers had trampled him in the scuffle. After that, the incident was never spoken of again).

Rafe could have made lieutenant by now, if not for his own arrogance and bigotry in his youth. Bean had not struck him for no reason, but because Rafe had finally pushed the smaller clone just too far, taking insult to a whole new level, which resulted in injury to them both.

That fight was why Bean had been reassigned to serve as a pilot. Rafe hadn't seen Bean since then, but not a day had gone by that he hadn't thought about what happened, and the terrible mistake he'd made.

"It's not one I intend to make again," Rafe said, as he concluded the explanation, "I was narrow-minded then, and saw poor Bean as less than a true clone. I was stupid, and arrogant and I deserved everything I got. Hell, I deserved worse."

"Yes," Tavis replied, a note of bitterness in his tone, "You certainly did."

After that, Tavis left him alone, either going to sleep or faking it.

But, though the other clone had gone away, his words did not leave Rafe's thoughts. It occurred to him that maybe, just maybe, he was being narrow in his view of Tavis. It was something worth thinking over. Rafe had already learned the cost of acting baseless emotions instead of cold reality the hard way once. He meant what he'd said to Tavis. He did not intend to make the same mistake twice.


	19. Those Left Behind

Things had been quiet around the AT-TE. The night passed without incident. The morning arrived without preamble, and the tanker crew began to feel a bit... bored. At least at the post they could always clean the tank. Out here in the field, they needed to stay inside and ready for anything. Tanker crews seldom left their tanks if they could avoid it.

And then the droids came.

Sergeant Nattan didn't panic when Logan announced that they had "clankers inbound". As Logan calmly rattled off numbers and coordinates, Nattan woke up _Beauty_ and got her turned so the gunners would have the best shot at the rude party crashers. The droids weren't in range yet, but Nattan went ahead and activated the stabilizing systems that would deal with the powerful recoil that would be generated by the AT-TEs most powerful cannon.

Six of the smaller cannons and the heavy one mounted on top meant that there was a gun for everybody, but typically neither the spotter nor the driver participated in that portion of the combat. Nattan wasn't sure what that design was about. It probably had seemed like a good idea on paper, and it really wasn't a bad idea to have extra cannons lying around in case one of yours got busted.

Nattan knew his job as driver was temporarily suspended. An AT-TE couldn't move fast on the best terrain, so there was no ducking and dodging involved. An AT-TE could trample the enemy, but only if they were close enough and not when operating the cannon mounted on top. However, Nattan would not leave the driver's seat for a cannon. It seemed like a good idea, but it wasn't, and he knew it.

Even though he felt like he was doing nothing to help, if the situation turned on them and the AT-TE needed to move fast (or, fast as it was able anyway), the driver needed to be there and ready, not playing tag with droids on the ground. For now, he placed all his trust in the gunners and spotter.

" _This is Caden, I'm taking the cannon position."_

Though he had assumed Caden was unconscious in the back, Nattan took the statement over the AT-TE's internal communication system in stride. His reply was a steady and thoughtful one, and he formed no question as to how Caden could summon the strength or will to move.

"Are you sure that's wise? That cannon has a helluva recoil on it."

" _I'm the closest to it, and you haven't got time to reassign everybody. I'll cope,"_ Caden replied.

"If you pass out up there, we're all screwed," Nattan said calmly.

" _I can handle it,"_ Caden insisted, _"Look, I may be dead in the next couple of hours, but I'd rather not be lying down when it happens. You need me, Sergeant."_

For the moment, Nattan realized he had little choice but to accept Caden's word, and his help. He turned his attention to his spotter, and left Caden to himself.

" _Targets coming into range now,"_ Logan announced, then called on Gunner One, giving coordinates.

A good spotter was hard to come by. A spotter needed the eyes of a sniper to not only make out the relatively tiny images on his display screen, but also to pick out important details from not. The spotter needed to be able to estimate range and direction based on input that was nearly pure gibberish to anyone without the proper training for it. And, most of all, he needed to predict the future. Not like predicting who was going to win the lottery. He needed to predict the speed and direction of the targets, based on what he could see happening currently. By the time a long distance shot reached the target, it would have moved from where it was when the shot was first fired. The spotter had to take that into account and give the gunners instructions based on where he anticipated the targets being when the shot finally did reach them. A good spotter was dead on about eighty percent of the time.

That might seem like a lot, until you realize that one slip up is all it takes to get yourself and everybody around you killed. On the other hand, eighty percent ability to predict the near future is nothing to sneeze at. And besides, in a heated battlefield, even if you miss the valuable targets, you'll probably still hit something, or at least generate holes in the ground that other troopers can use for cover in an advancing assault.

A typical sniper team consists of two people. The sniper and the spotter. The two switch places from time to time, because a sniper cannot be effective for very long. In a very short span, the alertness exhausts him and he becomes less accurate and his timing may be off.

For the AT-TE crews, the spotter was always the spotter. Why there was just one to the five gunners was a matter of space constraints. If there was more than one spotter, each of them would need their own display panels, and that equipment would add up in cost, space and weight. Eventually, it had been decided that the right number was five gunners and one spotter. That meant the spotter had to communicate with all five gunner positions, meaning he was not only aware of his own relative position to the target, but where the target was going to be and where it was and was going to be in relation to a specific gunner position. Logan now had a sixth person to coordinate with Caden taking the heavy top cannon.

It wasn't that gunners couldn't see anything. If the spotter was killed, gunners could still function. But their accuracy went down and so did their ability to coordinate. Gunners could really only focus on aiming perfectly. It doesn't seem like a lot, but it takes a surprising amount of concentration to hit what you think you're aiming for. If they had to see their target and predict it and aim at it, they'd slow down and also miss a lot of the time. Not to mention that the careful coordination would go straight to Hell. The AT-TE spotter told which gunner to attack where. Without him, it was possible and even likely that two or more gunners would pick the same target, leading to an excess of fire in one place and a total absence of it in some other spot. No tanker crew wanted to be in that position.

Nattan outranked Logan, but it was his job now to stay out of the latter's way and let him do the job he had qualified and trained for. Nattan was a former spotter himself, but one battle had left him with permanent damage. He was fine by normal standards, but he couldn't see as well or process the massive piles of information like he used to. He was a good driver, and would be better than no spotter at all, but the GAR organized itself for maximum effectiveness. And, as a spotter, Nattan didn't fit that.

The first shot came from the Gunner One position, just as Logan had instructed.

The AT-TE rocked, very slightly. But that slight movement had Nattan springing to the controls. A stabilized AT-TE wasn't supposed to rock. Nattan's informational displays told him the AT-TE was stabilized and everything appeared normal. Another shot rocked it again. Nattan knew none of the others had noticed, they were so focused on their individual tasks. But the second shot told Nattan what was wrong. It wasn't _Beauty_. It was the ground on which she stood.

"Shit," Nattan breathed aloud, "Not again."

The mud beneath the AT-TE shifted. The all-terrain part of the vehicle description was only good for terrain that stayed. You could walk some of these things up a cliff, and it was no major obstacle to cross solid ice. The waterproof interior made it possible to walk along the bottom of lakes (though this was undesirable for a number of reasons). But mud was something else again. The AT-TE had "grabbed" onto the ground, but the ground just squished and rearranged itself. Ice couldn't do that. You got a grip on ice, you were fine. The ice didn't go anywhere. Mud was different. And now the AT-TE was sliding. The surface mud came loose and slid across that which was underneath it. The AT-TE had hold, but not of something solid.

"Logan, we've got unstable ground. Attempting to compensate manually," that meant Nattan was going to manipulate the legs of the AT-TE to minimize recoil, either by repositioning the legs or merely straightening/bending them so that the weight of the tank shifted one way or another.

It wasn't nearly as effective as the stabilization procedure programmed into the tank in most circumstances, but if the system went off line or was unable to function (as now), it was a lot better than nothing. However, it was yet another calculation for Logan.

He had to predict how well Nattan could prevent the AT-TE from rocking, and adjust his instructions to the gunners accordingly. Which was why Nattan had let him know. Logan could do it, but if he had to find out on his own that that's what they were doing, three shots or more could be wasted.

" _Roger that, Sarge,"_ Logan replied into his headset, his station being in a different compartment from Nattan's, _"Gunner Six, relocate to APLC Six."_

There was an instant of hesitation. Logan had, without thinking, assigned Caden the call name of Gunner Six, because he was the sixth gunner. Caden seemed to realize that after a split second.

" _Roger that."_

Nattan wasn't convinced Caden could make it, but he had bigger problems than the injured trooper, or the fact that a ground trooper was now attempting to function in a capacity for which he had not been trained or designed. They needed that big cannon. But Logan knew Nattan couldn't compensate for _that_ much recoil, and he was obviously not taking any consideration for Caden's limited physical condition or lack of training. Better to use the smaller cannons and have more accurate targeting.

All seemed to be going well. That is, until the droids got close enough for their own blasters to work. They hadn't brought a tank of their own (they couldn't use tanks on Morassis any more than GAR troopers could), and their blaster rifles had shorter range than the tank.

But when their shots started peppering the outer armor of the tank, Nattan found he had to compensate for that impact. The shots weren't getting through the armor, but they were in numbers great enough to cause the tank to rock. And that was why they were shooting. To throw off the gunners' aim until they could get close enough to do real damage.

The tank rocked so hard that Nattan had to take a step forward with one leg. That proved to be a mistake. Unknowingly, Nattan had settled the tank right on one of the paper thin lines between semi-solid ground and quagmire. The leg didn't have anything to support it.

The tank jerked. Nattan swore at the spotter for not having noted the treacherous ground during an earlier scan, though he knew it wasn't Logan's fault. Tanks couldn't be brought out onto the battlefield here on Morassis specifically because spotters couldn't see the difference between safe and unsafe ground most of the time. Still, it felt good to swear at somebody, especially somebody who was too busy just now to take any notice of Nattan.

The tank was sliding forward, and nothing Nattan was doing was enough to free it.

Nattan wasn't a fool, and he hadn't become a sergeant by accident. He also knew a few tricks that did not come naturally to GAR troopers. Some wiseguy thought it was best to train GAR troopers to be essentially suicidal, willing to die in droves so that someone else could succeed. While self sacrifice has its place, Nattan had learned that staying alive meant continuing to fight, and gaining experience that can be shared to make other troopers more effective.

" _You want Gunner Two to do what now?"_ Logan, normally unflappable, practically yelped.

"You heard me," Nattan replied coolly, "So did he."

" _Roger that,"_ the trooper assigned the Gunner Two position chimed in.

" _Have you completely lost your mind?"_ Logan objected.

"Listen very carefully, Logan," Nattan said, ignoring the protests, "I need you to give the other gunners coordinates."

" _For what?"_

Nattan explained what he wanted the other gunners to do while Gunner Two was busy. It was a rapid explanation, there wasn't time to be thorough or detailed.

" _But that doesn't make any sense,"_ Logan said.

"If you prefer, I could demote you to a gunner position and do it myself. But I'd rather not, for reasons which should be obvious to you. But if you don't do as I tell you, none of us will be alive long enough to argue about whether or not you've got the right to question orders."

Logan was silent for a lengthy moment.

" _If you don't do it, I will,"_ Caden snarled, _"But I think we all know Gunner Two has the better angle."_

At last, Logan gave coordinates to each of the gunners, who had been listening in silence, as confused as Logan was. But, like Logan, they did as they were told.

The second gunner aimed his cannon as close to straight down as he could possibly manage. The others, meanwhile, had set up a cycle of firing. They were missing the droids, but hitting the dirt, effectively drawing a line, forging a shield out of their own weapons. That wouldn't stop the droids, and the guns only had so much power.

" _They're either going to find a way around or we're going to run out of power,"_ was Logan's frank, oddly calm assessment, _"The clankers may be dim, but they ain't that dim."_

Nattan didn't reply. It was taking all his concentration to keep the AT-TE from sliding into the quagmire, trying to use the shuddering force of Gunner Two's firing to help rock it forward. With two legs definitely on solid ground, he still had some ability to maneuver, though not enough leverage to prevent the tank from sinking entirely. Unlike in water, once an AT-TE sank into what amounted to quicksand, there was little chance of retrieval. It was his hope that Gunner Two's firing could be used almost as a thruster, pitching the tank clear. It was clear though, that it was not enough.

Logan knew that their own position was precarious. He needed to be careful who he told to shoot and where, or risk Nattan's not being able to counter it, thereby preventing the tank from sliding all the way into the quagmire. He had already resigned himself to the fact that sinking was inevitable, but forestalling that was in the best interest of all, including him and the rest of the crew.

" _This is Gunner Six,"_ Caden's voice spoke amidst all the other noise, _"Recommend I adjust my aim to aid Gunner Two."_

"Agreed," Nattan answered, "Do it, Gunner Six."

Logan didn't need to give Caden directions, but long habit made him do so.

" _Gunner Six, fire and maintain firing,"_ Logan said, his voice steady once more, earlier panic forgotten.

" _Roger that,"_ Caden, seemingly imperturbable, commenced firing.

The tank shuddered, groaned, rocked, and -at Nattan's patient urging- tore free.

Instantly, Logan was shouting instructions.

" _Gunners Two and Six, cease fire immediately! All gunners prepare to receive new instructions."_

Nattan exhaled sharply, surprised to discover he'd been holding his breath.

"Thank you, Caden," he breathed, "You'd make a fine tank gunner."

" _We're not out of this yet, sir,"_ Caden replied levelly, but Nattan thought he detected a slightly pleased note in the PFC's exhausted voice.


	20. What Caden Knew

Caden had been briefly unconscious around the time the squad set out, but had regained awareness fairly rapidly. But he hadn't voluntarily moved a muscle since, not until the droid attack. It was clear from the pain in his voice that moving had been a major health risk. And he'd taken it for a tanker crew, one who had ridiculed his squad, distrusted them and failed to support them as well as they should have. Caden was not a tank soldier, he had no reason to take the risk for them. But he had.

He didn't have the time or inclination to say it, but Caden knew something the others had yet to realize.

Though stray or stealthy droids were not uncommon, an entire unit of them actively revealing themselves and investigating the clones in the area should have been unheard of. Unless this area was no longer in the possession of the Republic. The others knew as well as Caden that the outpost they'd left had been attacked, and that droids had come after them, but Caden was fairly certain they hadn't followed the notion to its logical conclusion.

The land was lost in a skirmish. Droids had taken clone troopers by surprise, and managed to upset communications significantly. Attacking at multiple points without warning, the droids toppled the command structure that governed the GAR troopers. Further altercations left clone ranks ragged and disorganized. Though retreat was not their natural way, the only ones to survive were those who ignored their inclination to participate in a futile suicide in an attempt to retake land they had not the numbers or structure to reclaim. Strays were picked off one by one, until there were few or none left.

Exhausted, in pain, Caden had been unable to fully articulate what he knew to Tavis.

As a matter of training, contact with droids was nothing to be overly concerned about. As a matter of habit, _Fortune_ considered droids to be no more worthy of note than any other of the thousands of things that were out to kill them. To them, a hunter and killer of clones was just that, nothing more. Because their minds filed droids under standard dangers of their posting, not one of them stopped to consider what should have been a very relevant fact.

If a spy knew where the clone carrying the intel was coming from, and where his escort had started, what was to stop them from also knowing where he was going?

They thought their troubles were nearly over. In reality, their troubles had only just begun...

* * *

The pouring rain lowered visibility such that they did not see until they were practically on top of it. Even then, it was more what they didn't see than what they did. And what they didn't see was the temporary buildings. They didn't see anyone walking around. They didn't see any sentries in the expected places. They didn't see storage crates piled along the pathways between the tents. They didn't see the tents either. Volk actually stepped on part of one before they absorbed what they weren't seeing.

The base was gone.

Thunder roared so loudly it affected their balance, and the rain wasn't just falling, it was beating against them with almost enough force to knock them down if they weren't careful. It was as if Morassis itself hadn't wanted them to come here. And there was no disagreeing with that. There wasn't anything here.

A closer look told more of the story.

Half-buried in the mud, visible only because the downpour washed off the grime, each droplet digging itself a little hole in the ground, were what remained of the post.

Broken bits of steel and shattered concrete, torn shreds of tent and chunks of storage bins scorched by blaster fire, pieces of armor... and then they found the bodies. Bodies were everywhere, hard to see because they were no longer alive, and because algae coated the armor and skin of them. The posting wasn't merely gone... it had been destroyed. Completely.

Phisher knelt down and picked up a chunk of unidentifiable debris, examining the scorched edge as best he could in the blinding rain. Rafe stood behind him, then asked the obvious question.

"Droids?"

"Mmm," Phisher grunted, not looking up.

He dropped the scrap on the ground, and watched as the ferocious rainwater quickly pounded it into the ground, where it disappeared. He looked up at Rafe, who seemed to be lost in thought.

"There was a platoon's worth of men stationed here," Rafe said finally, as Volk approached, "and that's not counting the additional manpower that was being flown in. At any given time, there could have been fifty or sixty soldiers here. Well equipped too."

"This wasn't a raiding party," Volk said, "This was a takeover."

"What are you saying?" Phisher asked, though it was evident he already knew.

"I'm saying we're behind enemy lines now. Which means we're on our own."

"Lovely. Another safari adventure with you lot. Just what I was looking forward to," Phisher said sarcastically, standing up and wiping mud off his gloves, then contemplated them for a moment before speaking again, "I know that was redundant. But so is this."

"No. This time it's different," Volk told him, "This time... we know what did this to us."

"Looks to me like this was a night attack. Most of the bodies are indoors. Or would be indoors, if any of the buildings were still standing," Doc said, "Most of the perimeter cannons haven't been fired. They didn't see this coming. It's almost like they didn't expect trouble."

"But they must have," Volk said, "Droids couldn't get this far without taking out a lot of field troops. The post would have been alerted, if only because they lost contact with those squads."

"Unless the droids themselves pretended to be the squads they'd killed," Rafe theorized.

"Droids aren't that smart on their own," Phisher said, "Besides, we use codes. They couldn't have effectively faked being GAR troops for long. Unless..."

"Oh God," Rafe said.

"What?" Volk looked from one to the other, "Unless what?"

"Tavis told me that we had a spy in our midst," Rafe said, "I knew it was bad, but I didn't think..."

"Damn right, you didn't think," Volk snapped.

"It doesn't matter now," Tavis intervened, "What we need to do now is figure out what to do."

"Survive, obviously," Volk snapped, still seething.

"Well, that rules out the suicide I'm sure we were all contemplating," Rafe hissed angrily, in no mood for Volk's temper tantrum.

The plan had been for _Fortune Actual_ to deliver Bean to this posting. It was as far as they were ever meant to go. Bean was supposed to be picked up by a larty crew. From there, Rafe wasn't sure. He had only been given the specifics of the first leg of Bean's journey. Where Bean and Tavis were meant to end up was obvious, but how they were to get there was another matter. Locating any single person, much less a Jedi, somewhere on the surface of a planet was worse than looking for a needle in a haystack.

Buying them time to think and discuss, Volk sent the squad out to look for anything left in the base that they could possibly use. They were also to look for signs of any survivors, and where those might have gone.

Clones weren't exactly trained to be scavengers, but it was a skill they rapidly picked up on the field of battle. If your brother was dead, he probably didn't need his grenades or med-kit. Anything you were low on or could carry extra of without sacrificing mobility was fair game. A supply ship was not always waiting for you at the end of a given battle, and you could easily find that you or another of your brothers who was still alive might be in dire need of extra power packs or rations.

It quickly became apparent that nobody had "scavenged" from this post. If there were survivors, they must have left in a hurry. A swift retreat was not preferred by GAR troopers, but experienced soldiers knew the value of fleeing while you still had your lives. When presented with the choice between certain death without purpose and living to fight another day, the wiser of them would almost certainly choose the latter, and their men were sure to follow them.

"We have to go back," Volk, said.

Rafe, Volk, Bean and Tavis were in conference while the rest of the squad fanned out to scout the post. Volk knew the tank was their best defense now, and that it was the only hope they had of surviving whatever lay ahead. But in Rafe's mind, the mission was not complete. His objective of making sure Bean lived through this had yet to be obtained.

"Say what?" Rafe demanded.

"We have no way of knowing how far we'll have to go, or what sort of terrain lies between us and our objective. I say we go back, pick up the tank, maybe even return to where Bean and Tavis started. Far as we know, that post hasn't been attacked. It's better than wandering around blind out here. If we also find the bastard that did this to us," he was using the term 'us' to refer to all GAR troopers and his tone darkened, "so much the better."

"I wouldn't mind taking a shot at the snake," Tavis said.

Then they both fell silent and looked to Rafe. Whether they wanted him to think of something better or merely give his consent, he wasn't sure. He got the sense that, if he said the wrong thing, they would turn on him like rabid animals. But he could not agree with them.

"Corporal," he turned to Bean, who had been silent throughout the debate, "It's my understanding that your intel is time sensitive."

"Extremely," Bean answered coolly, but there was no sign of his earlier overt hostility towards Rafe.

"Going back for the tank, much less all the way back to where Corporal Bean started, would take a lot of time, possibly too much."

"And going on could get him killed," Volk spat, "I remind you, Sergeant, that Bean here is not a ground trooper. The longer we keep him out here in the open without any protection but us, the more likely it is that he'll be killed before we ever get close to General Skywalker, or anyone else for that matter," he glanced at Bean, "Sorry, Bean, but that's how I see it."

Bean shrugged and said nothing.

"And the more time we waste, the less likely his intel will reach the right people in time to do any good," Rafe countered Volk, "Besides, don't you think going back is what they'd expect us to do? We're short on manpower, and are unable to carry out our orders as stated. Don't you think it would make sense for them to expect us to turn back, to look for support and new orders?"

Volk growled, but said nothing. Rafe looked to Tavis, who offered no argument, either because he had none or because he had -for the moment- remembered that he was a mere PFC and therefore had no authority here, it was not his place to argue. This time, Rafe had won.


	21. The Lot of Sergeants

There was no hesitation, no tense moment where it was unclear what the squad would do. Volk turned to look at the members of the squad who were scattered about the destroyed post and jerked his head in the direction they'd come from. The squad responded.

It wasn't clear how Volk had conveyed with a mere flick of his head exactly what they were doing. Rafe wasn't sure, but he suspected that Volk had somehow conveyed the complex discussion they'd had with a single motion that was understood by the rest of his squad from sixty yards.

The only reluctance was displayed by Theran, who stood stiffly for a moment, looking back the way they'd come as though he expected Caden to show up at any moment. Then, lowering his head dejectedly, the young Onitheran fell into position near the head of the formation.

But, though the squad had formed up, they didn't move. It took Rafe a moment to figure out why. As was standard, the two fireteams had switched positions in the formation, meaning Tavis was now supposed to be on point. But he failed to assume his position, instead regarding Rafe quietly.

He was waiting, Rafe realized. Tavis had not waited for Rafe's permission to assume the role of fireteam one's leader, but now he was waiting for Rafe's approval before taking point. Rafe wondered what had changed between then and now, even as he dipped his head, granting Tavis the permission he sought. Out of the corner of his eye, Rafe saw that Volk was watching. He couldn't begin to speculate as to what the stormy dispositioned Corporal thought of that.

At once, Tavis moved to the front of the formation and set out. Theran moved behind him on one side, Onoff on the other, Phisher hanging back. The rest of the squad spread out behind them, maintaining visual contact as best they could in the pouring rain, resulting in a more tightly packed unit than Rafe would have preferred. They crouched as low as the terrain permitted them while they were moving, and Tavis moved them in such a way as to have the best cover, rather than the shortest distance.

They were even more cautious now than before, if that were at all possible. They had more to worry about now than the odd Temmie or deep pool with a shark in it. There had been an off chance before that droids might be in the area, now it was a virtual certainty.

More, Rafe realized that there had doubtless been droids in the area they had already traversed, and they were lucky not to have encountered them. Obviously, the droids had known where they were going. It was the only possible explanation. Otherwise, why here and now? Given the entire planet was a battleground, there were plenty of outposts and bases which were easier to reach, and of greater strategic value. If the only objective had been to take the clones by surprise, that the attack had come here and now was a tremendous coincidence. No, it was far more likely that Caden was right in suggesting the presence of a spy in their midst.

Perhaps the delays and being knocked off course had been a blessing in disguise. It seemed ill to think that when Caden had been so badly injured as a result of it, but Rafe couldn't entirely discount the notion anyway.

It occurred to him that the Separatists had to know what intel Bean was carrying if they were so desperate to stop him from delivering it. But most intel, particularly time sensitive intel, was only valuable so long as the enemy didn't know you had it. Supply deliveries and troop deployments and even battle plans could easily be changed if you knew the enemy knew what you intended to do. Whatever Bean knew, the Separatists knowing that he knew it changed nothing. If anything, they seemed all the more desperate to see that he was killed before he could complete his mission.

Rafe was only now beginning to understand what being a sergeant meant. As a clone, he had always viewed himself and every one of his brothers as expendable. But a good sergeant did not lead his men to their deaths without reason, it was his duty to do everything possible to make sure they survived, so long as it didn't prevent them from completing their mission. He had to weigh their orders against the lives of his men, and now in the field he found that carrying out his orders to the letter would leave the mission incomplete. To leave Bean and Tavis at the ruined outpost would be to virtually guarantee they would fail to complete their mission. But going on with them was to risk his squad without orders demanding that he do so. Doing the right thing wasn't as easy as it looked from the outside.

If his decision got his men killed, Rafe would never be able to forgive himself. They were his responsibility, as much as the equipment he was charged with the maintenance and use of. A clone valued his blaster above his personal safety, it was not his to lose or break, but instead it belonged to the GAR. A squad ceased to be just a bunch of clones, but instead became soldiers belonging to the GAR, whose experience and training made each of them more valuable than any single blaster.

Rafe had never understood it before now. This was the difference between a sergeant in the GAR and a soldier of lower rank. He understood Volk's open hostility now, at least in part.

Though he had lacked the rank, Volk had shouldered the responsibility of a sergeant. The squad was his to command, and to protect. He was responsible for them in all respects, for their lives as well as any actions they might take. He would be credited with anything -good or bad- that they did, and would be counted responsible if any of them was injured, killed or otherwise lost.

No wonder he begrudged the intrusion of a stranger who might or might not take care of his men.

And what of Tavis? He had served as the squad sergeant for _Fortune Actual_ on Onithera, and had afterward been promoted to full sergeant rank. Had concern for those under his command perhaps clouded his judgment? Had the actions he'd taken been to protect his men, regardless of the risk to himself? He had to have known that what he'd done would get him killed, either by those in authority over him or by the very soldiers of the GAR itself. For what possible reason could he have committed to action that would lose him command of his squad, and perhaps get him executed?

He was obviously no deserter, nor did Rafe believe he was a spy. If he were either of those, he'd have escaped when he had the chance, not remained where he could be found, taken in, interrogated, stripped of rank and then offered to the lions as it were. Why then? Why had he done it?

Rafe didn't know. What he did know was that it was a question he should have thought to ask earlier.

He feared that it was now too late, even if he did find the answer.

* * *

Nattan had concerns of his own, which also related to his being a sergeant and responsible for those who served under him.

Though he was no medic, it was evident to Nattan that Caden was in the process of dying. Indeed, without medical treatment, he would almost assuredly be dead before _Fortune Actual_ returned. If they returned.

Caden was not under Nattan's command, strictly speaking.

Though it was pleasant to think of every clone in the army as being interchangeable, the simple fact was that this was unrealistic. Clones had to learn, in far less time than any ordinary beings, how to go from being children to being men. At the same time, they had to learn the art of violence, but also the discipline to keep it in check. Some went through a more extensive training period to prepare them for the rigors of higher command.

Put plainly, Caden was not a tank soldier, not by training or by command. He had been relieved of his duty by his sergeant, and left without any order to end that relief under any circumstances. Caden had no inherent duty to the tank, nor had it been expected of him to participate in the battle. Even had the tank crew been down a man, it would not have occurred to Nattan to assign Caden, even had he not been so injured as he was. By no law or regulation had he been required to fight, and his brothers would not have thought less of him for not participating. His service had been of value, but Nattan did not believe Caden had been indispensable, and he was quite certain the PFC had not thought of himself as such.

And yet, Caden had fought with and for the tanker crew, entirely of his own volition, likely increasing the trauma to his damaged body in the process.

Nattan's first loyalty was supposed to be his tank and crew. And that meant staying with the vehicle and defending it at all costs. But Caden had saved their lives, and his time was running out. A tank could be replaced, loyalty, initiative and capability such as Caden had earlier displayed could not.

What was more, Sgt. Rafe had left the PFC under the care and protection of Sergeant Nattan and his men. If they continued to do nothing, they would be shirking their responsibilities, and letting a good man die. But could Nattan justify abandoning the tank to save just one life? A clone's life?

Or was there some way he could save both the man and the equipment?

He half hoped that Caden would simply keel over dead now, and save him the anguish of making a decision that could cost him everything he held dear. His sense of loyalty to his brother? Or his sense of duty to the Grand Army of the Republic?

It was a choice which no clone trooper should have had to make, yet it was exactly the sort of decision that sergeants, lieutenants and everything above them had to make all the time. If they were wrong, they, their men or those they were charged with the protection of would suffer the consequences. The consequences usually being death of anywhere between one and all of the above.

This was the cost of being too good at your job.

Nattan didn't fully comprehend it, but this was also the price of serving in or with members of _Fortune Actual_. They never could do things the easy way, and generally left everyone around them in a state of consternation. In an army of many beings who were essentially one, they were aliens, outsiders, bizarre offshoots from the main whole, incomprehensible, inescapable and unignorable.

"Positioning scanners are still unreliable," Logan reported to Nattan, "But, assuming the information we've got is correct, there's an Anuri settlement north of our location, maybe a day's march."

Nattan had left one of the gunners in the piloting position, choosing to speak directly to Logan. One of the other gunners had gone to check on Caden when he failed to respond after the end of the battle.

"Sir, if you want my opinion," Logan said, with as much ease as someone discussing past events that were set in stone, "we'd never make it on foot. We have neither the training nor the experience to cope with the dangers of Morassis, and we haven't got the firearms to take out another contingent of clankers if we meet them on the ground."

"You skipped the part where regulations are explicit about tanks. We cannot all abandon _Beauty_ , and I wouldn't want to," Nattan said, "And we haven't the numbers to make splitting up a reasonable course."

"Sarge, you and I have worked together for a long time. I know you. And I know you want to save that kid. But I just don't see how it can be managed."

"That one's no kid, Logan," Nattan said, with equal mildness of tone, and then changed the subject, "Now, what course of action would you propose if something were to happen to _Fortune_ , if for some reason they were unable to come back for us?"

"Since you asked, it's my opinion that they've no reason to come back at all," Logan told him.

"Elaborate."

"The base we came from has been destroyed, there's nothing for us or them to go back to. They know PFC Caden is dying and cannot be safely moved far by hand. Without their damned slug, they have no means with which to guide us, their guess is as good as mine about what ground will hold under _Beauty_ 's weight and what ground won't. There is no possible benefit to coming back for us."

"Except keeping their word."

"With respect, it was Sergeant Rafe who gave his word, and I don't believe we'll be seeing him again. You saw how his squad treated him, and we've both heard the stories. They're a bunch of wild animals, with a rabid one as their leader. Sergeant Rafe has got about as much chance of surviving in the wilds of Morassis with that squad as that kid in the back has without medical aid."

Nattan sighed. He had always found Logan's tendency to listen to idle gossip a bit tiresome. But his spotter might have a point. Certainly he'd made the one Nattan had been hoping for.

"Well, if they're not coming back, what do we do?"

"There's only one thing we can do," Logan said matter-of-factly, "Try to make it to a base on our own."

"You think you can do that?" Nattan asked.

They were both uncomfortably aware that they had nearly sunk twice now, just staying where they were. That retracing their steps would be a waste of time and that they would therefore have to forge a new trail, with Logan marking the path for Nattan as best he could. It was more than risky, it was bordering on absolutely suicidal.

Still, they couldn't just stay here forever and hope someone would come and save them. In the grand scheme of things, they were expendable. Aside from which, there was just one squad somewhere out there in the untamed swamp of Morassis that had any idea they were still alive, much less where they were.

Logan shook his head ruefully, then said, "I don't see as it matters one way or another. You're going to ask me to try it anyhow. Just so we're clear, I'll try for you, not that kid in back."

"But you _will_ try," Nattan spoke it as a statement, not a question.

"Yeah," Logan sighed, "I'll try."

Nattan clapped Logan on the shoulder, "And that, my friend, is why I keep you around."

"Because I'm an idiot who'll try anything you suggest?"

"No," Nattan said, "Because you're man enough to admit that there's a possibility that there's something you can't do, but you're still brave enough to try."

"Exactly," Logan said, "An idiot who'll try anything you suggest."

"Whatever makes you happy, Logan."

"Some good solid ground beneath me," Logan said, " _That's_ what would make me happy."

"Well," Nattan said, "If we survive this, maybe we'll eventually get reassigned to one of those rocky planets, where there isn't enough water to keep a sparrow alive."

"That would suit me fine," Logan grumbled, turning his attention to his display screens.

Nattan left him to his work and took over the driver seat, returning the gunner to his post. He then radioed the gunner who'd gone to check on Caden.

" _PFC Caden's unconscious again, sir,"_ came the report, _"But going over the log of shots fired from this station, it looks like he made every one count. No misses recorded. Not one single miss."_

 _And that,_ Nattan thought to himself, _is why we have to make sure he lives to fight another day._

There was also a small part of him saying that he was the one who'd been driving the AT-TE when it stepped on Caden. He had broken Caden, and now it was his responsibility to fix him.


	22. The River

Tavis stopped, knee deep in the gray-green water with its surface coating of algae. It was the algae that had tipped him off. Just a few yards from where he'd stopped, the water was very nearly clear of it. Between the sloshing noises the clones couldn't help but make and the assorted calls of unseen wild animals, he'd failed to notice the rushing sound until now.

According to the map as Tavis had memorized it before he and Bean set out, there should be no river here. Though Tavis and Bean had not been meant to be on the ground here, it was nonetheless standard for them to learn their path, the terrain and potential hazards they might encounter, should something not go according to plan. In Tavis' experience, things _never_ went according to plan.

Because up until yesterday this had been well inside the borders of land taken and guarded by Republic troops, there was no reason for there not to be a record of a river in this spot. Unless, of course, the river hadn't been there until yesterday either. So much for plans.

He signaled to Theran to join him. With the quickness and agility of a cat, Theran bounded from one upthrust tree root to another, his powerful hind claws digging in through the layer of slime and finding a grip on the wood beneath. Theran had so far avoided any water deeper than a couple of inches in this manner, something the clones couldn't do. It was an ability Tavis had envied from the first time he'd seen Theran employ the technique.

"Theran, I want you to scout the river's edge, looking for any place narrower or shallower, easier to cross," Theran chirped an affirmative, but Tavis caught him with a final instruction, "And Theran, by 'easier', I mean easier for us. We can't cover forty feet in a single bound."

Theran made a noise that was either a growl or perhaps a chuckle, flicked the tip of his tail and bounced off downriver, disappearing into the mist and undergrowth almost immediately.

That same mist prevented Tavis from seeing across the river. Kneeling down, he swung his sniper rifle into the ready position, snapping out the twin supports. He balanced them carefully on a semi-level section of tree root, and then looked through the scope.

"Report," Tavis had heard Rafe come up behind him, but had ignored him.

He continued to do so for the few extra seconds it took to make out the opposite bank of the river on the other side. It was closer than expected, but still rather farther than he wanted to try and swim, not in current that swift, in water of unknown depth, which might or might not have sharks in it.

"It's a river," Tavis reported, "I estimate it's about three hundred feet across."

"Depth?"

"I couldn't guess, except it's too deep for us to wade, if that's what you're getting at."

Rafe looked at the river for a moment, then muttered, "With that current, three feet would be too deep."

Tavis didn't acknowledge this, except to pause before going on, "I sent Theran downriver to look for a crossing point, but at a guess I'd say it's deeper where it's narrower."

"You have experience crossing bodies of water?" Rafe inquired.

"Enough to know I don't like it," Tavis replied.

It was a gross understatement. The truth was that Tavis hated water, and everything to do with it. He'd felt his stomach begin to coil with dread the moment he heard he'd been assigned to Morassis. In the weeks that followed his arrival on the planet, he'd managed to reduce the dread to a sort of vague numbness. After all, the water wasn't any worse than the fact that his brothers wanted him dead. He'd forced himself to accept the reality, however abhorrent he found it, and had more or less come to be at peace with the muck and mud and the fact that he had to wade almost wherever he went.

But the idea of actually crossing a river, of having to swim, of having a current trying to drag him under... to say he didn't like it was like saying that his boss wanting him dead was a bit of an inconvenience. Yet Tavis had learned to accept that both were unavoidable parts of his reality.

He'd crossed rivers before, and would no doubt do so again. But, if possible, he would prefer it not to be here and now. He was hoping desperately that Theran would find a place where they could cross without having to swim. Or maybe a way around, though that was just wishful thinking.

Evidently, seeing Tavis and Rafe together, out of earshot of the others, was more than Volk could stand. Or perhaps he saw a decision was needed and felt that, as official second in command, it was his job to offer an opinion, He left his spot in the formation and came forward to join them.

Volk immediately saw the problem. He looked at the river, then briefly at Tavis. Volk knew how much Tavis hated water, fast flowing water in particular. He said nothing, but Rafe evidently read something into the glance. He looked from Volk to Tavis, deciding which would be most likely to be straight with him. With evident reluctance, he settled on Tavis.

"Is there a problem?" he asked, in a tone that demanded absolute honesty.

"No sir," Volk responded out of turn, but Tavis raised a hand to silence him.

"Just an aversion to swimming, sir," Tavis answered, "Nothing that can't be ignored. If you decide we have to cross, then that's just what we'll do," he gave Volk a significant look, "What we'll _all_ do."

Rafe looked from Volk to Tavis again, as though trying to decide which of them looked the most uncomfortable, as if that might tell him which of them had the phobia. He seemed to decide it might just as well be both of them, and didn't press the matter further.

"What are the chances these waters are shark infested?" Rafe asked, returning his attention to the river.

"Caden's done more research than I have," Volk confessed, "He'd likely be able to tell you for sure. I'd guess no chance normally, but -what with the flooding- there's no way to know. If there are any sharks in there though, they're likely pissed and hungry."

"Wonderful," Rafe growled, glaring at the river as though it were an enemy he could destroy somehow.

Tavis didn't get the sense that Rafe disliked water any more than was reasonable, but the real reasons were plenty enough to provoke a sense of enmity. It would be easy for a clone in the water to be pulled under and drowned, or dragged downriver and potentially into jagged boulders the likes of which were common on Morassis. The possibility of sharks could not be overlooked. The fact that crossing the river would leave them in the open and helpless to find cover for an amount of time was doubtless crossing Rafe's mind even now. There was plenty of reason to not want to swim the river, especially not here.

"Have you ever had to swim a river?" Volk asked, hastily adding, "sir."

"Once," Rafe answered, his voice still a low growl, "and it turned out to be an ambush. Separatist troops were lying in wait for us. Tore the whole platoon to pieces."

In a detached kind of way, Tavis wondered if any clone had ever had a good experience with a body of water. Fresh water could be welcome to a squad running low on supplies, but that positive seemed far more rare than the myriad negatives surrounding rivers and their ilk.

A chirp, followed by an impatient honk, informed them that Theran had returned. None of them had heard him return, and he moved so smoothly and blended so well with the background that they hadn't caught sight of him until he straightened and drew their notice.

"Find something?" Tavis asked.

Theran nodded curtly, and then ducked his head, swinging his tail back and forth lazily. Tavis glanced at Volk, who had more experience with the creature. Volk shrugged. It was Caden who knew Theran's every vocalization and gesture. Theran blew through his nose loudly, seeming irritated.

"Follow," Theran hissed finally, turning away from them and then looking over his shoulder.

Tavis looked to Rafe, who nodded assent. Tavis moved to follow Theran, and the squad strung out behind him as before. The way Theran led them moved them inland somewhat, out of sight of the river. The path he took them on was a sharp downhill descent, and they were forced into single file by the thick brush and sharply jutting rocks.

Theran was oddly aware of the clones' limited physical abilities. He could easily have leaped and skittered his way to the bottom of the path, but instead he sought out the easiest route. It was a learned ability, one he probably never would have learned in the wild, since only female Onitherans raised chicks and therefore only female Onitherans had the need to be aware of the limitations of others. Female Onitherans needed to pick safe and easy trails for their young to follow them on, because the chicks were much weaker and more fragile than adults.

But even given Theran's consideration for the limitations of clones, they spent more time slipping and sliding than actually walking down. The mist was thinner away from the river, and there was no water here, except in the form of mud, so they could at least see what they were trying to do.

Theran got down ahead of the rest of the squad. He stood waiting for a moment, then a flicker of motion caught his attention. Instantly attracted, he hopped into the shallowest edge of the river. The motion had come from farther in, and deeper down. Peering at the murky water, Theran made out the shape of a small fish. Tensing, he prepared to pounce.

"Theran, this is no time for snacking," Tavis said.

Theran ignored him. Theran's snout darted forward into the water and he came up with a fish about eight inches long. Rather than gulp it down, Theran trotted over to where Tavis was and shook the fish at him. Tavis had just reached the bottom of the descent, and had paused to catch his breath.

"I don't want it."

Theran blew through his nose irritably. Theran ignored the others as they arrived each in turn, until Volk. When Volk reached the foot of the hill, Theran stomped over to him and shook the fish again. Volk waved him off, so Theran went back to Tavis.

"Nobody wants it, Theran," Tavis said.

Irritated, Theran tossed his head and snapped the fish down. He gulped loudly, to make his annoyance even more clear to anyone listening. Volk shushed him, and Theran blew through his nose again.

Whatever Theran had been trying to communicate with the fish, it was obvious to Tavis that he'd completely misinterpreted it. However, he did not miss the fact that Theran had at no time offered the fish to Rafe. In fact, the creature had ignored Rafe altogether, like he wasn't even there. Tavis filed that away for later consideration.

The ground the river had flooded over was more level here, and the water was slower than it was where Tavis had first encountered it. The flatter terrain meant that the water spread out too. The river was much shallower, but also a lot wider. Here though, it was more obvious that it was a flood river, as Tavis had originally surmised, as it was studded with trees and whatever brush had deep enough roots to prevent it from being carried away.

Tavis again employed his rifle scope. He couldn't see the opposite bank, but he could get a better look at the brush. It told him exactly what he needed to know.

"Based on the average height of some of the trees and brush out there, I'd say the water's about chest deep here. Current's slow enough that we can probably wade it, and the trees should provide cover."

"I'm still concerned about the possibility of sharks," Rafe said, and there was an edge to his voice that Tavis couldn't figure the reason for.

"Theran led us here," Volk said, "Meaning he thinks this is the safest place to cross."

"And we can trust him?"

"He's led us across dangerous swamp area before," Volk said, "I'd trust his judgment above my own under the circumstances."

"Tavis, you agree?" Rafe asked, surprising Tavis by consulting him.

He reminded himself that he was functioning as temporary leader of fireteam one, and had experience with both Theran and river crossing. It was appropriate for Rafe to ask his opinion. It only meant Rafe was wise enough to overlook his prejudice for the moment, nothing more.

"I don't fancy crossing water under any circumstance, but if there was a way around it in a reasonable distance, I believe Theran would have found it."

Rafe sighed, and inexplicably sounded discontented with his own decision as he said, "Alright, Tavis. You go first. I want you to take up a position in that copse of trees ahead, and cover the rest of us. We'll regroup there, and either find another rendezvous point, or the opposite bank."

Volk expressed his discomfort with the arrangement only by tensing up, but he managed to suppress the growl that tried to form in his throat. Tavis put a hand on Volk's shoulder, reminding him in the silent gesture that he would either be first or last across, and then set about picking his way down into the water. He moved slowly, cautiously, feeling for slippery patches and watching for things in the water. He knew the others behind him were keeping an eye out for anything heading his way, as well as marking his progress to note any hazardous portions of the journey from here to there.

Even given the gentle current, Tavis at one point did slip and nearly lost his balance. He immediately stopped and looked back towards Rafe, who was keeping an eye on him. At Rafe's nod of acknowledgment, Tavis proceeded forward once more.

In less time than it felt like, he reached the point where he'd been instructed to stop and take up a defensive position. As soon as he'd done so and signaled his readiness, Rafe signaled for another member of Tavis' fireteam to cross, evidently choosing to hold the others where they were until he had two on the other side providing cover. Onoff went forward without specific prompting.

Onoff had nearly made it to Tavis' position when Rafe suddenly began to shout something. He was out of Tavis' hearing range, but clearly frantic about something. Tavis scanned the water, searching for the shape and movement of a shark, or any other predator. He saw nothing, but Rafe continued to carry on frantically.

As Onoff reached Tavis, he seemed to slip suddenly. He grabbed onto Tavis' arm, as if on instinct, for support. Tavis felt a sudden wave of foreboding, but he didn't understand it until he felt Onoff abruptly shift his weight and bring up his left leg. An instant later, Onoff's boot connected with the side of Tavis' right knee. With a yelp of pain and astonishment, Tavis went down, with Onoff on top of him.

* * *

From the riverbank, it looked as if Onoff had slipped and inadvertently dragged Tavis down with him. Volk had been keeping an eye out for land-based threats. He didn't move at Rafe's first shout.

"Onoff, stop!" was what Rafe was shouting.

Volk turned just in time to see both Onoff and Tavis go down. His first instinct was that they'd been attacked by something Rafe must have been able to see, probably a shark in the water. Volk knew nothing of the animosity that the majority of clones in the GAR had towards Tavis. Nobody had dared speak of it in front of _Fortune_ , fearing (and rightly so) Volk's potential wrath.

But Volk did know that Rafe had been openly hostile towards Tavis, and it now occurred to him that the tank crew had been rather cold toward him as well. Too late, he remembered Caden's report concerning Onoff at the beginning of the mission. Too late, he realized the truth.

Onoff was going to kill Tavis.


	23. Blood in the Water

Disbelief slowed Tavis' reactions. For a critical few seconds, he did not resist Onoff's assault. In those seconds, he was forced under the water. Onoff got one arm across his throat, and employed the other to try and tear off his helmet. It wasn't so much the pain in his knee that had Tavis stunned, as the complete and utter disbelief that Onoff was actually attacking him, trying to drown him.

Tavis expected it of other clones, including Rafe. But not a member of _Fortune_. Never _Fortune_. Least of all, Onoff, who -as clones went- was among the most placid and nonjudgmental. But Onoff, Tavis realized belatedly, also followed orders. Any and all orders issued by a superior, always and without fail. Suddenly, Tavis understood why Rafe had been yelling. He had either issued the kill order... or knew who had.

This new comprehension of the situation at last allowed Tavis to act. He grabbed the arm across his throat, and simultaneously kicked off the river bottom and snapped his head back in an attempt to strike Onoff in the face as well as launch upward, out of the water. He wasn't drowning yet, but the filter in his helmet wouldn't keep the water at bay for long, even if Onoff failed to remove it.

He didn't succeed in hitting Onoff, but he did manage to push off the bottom of the river and lift both of them upward and backward. His head cleared the water. Freeing one hand, Tavis slammed his elbow back, but he couldn't hit below the thick chest plate at his angle and therefore the blow had no effect.

Tavis heaved his weight forward, but Onoff was better grounded and Tavis couldn't flip him. Throwing his head back again, Tavis felt his head strike against the lower part of a helmet, but it didn't matter because Onoff's helmet protected him.

The shifted position had given Onoff a new hold across Tavis' throat, and he was now suffocating. Choking, Tavis couldn't let out the growl of fury that rose within. Lips curled into a snarl, he clawed at the arm across his throat and tried to throw Onoff again. To avoid being flipped, Onoff heaved his own weight into Tavis' back, forcing him to stumble forward. Only Onoff's hold on him prevented him from falling face first into the water. Onoff clearly now felt he had a better chance at choking Tavis than drowning him. He was right. Tavis wobbled, black spots exploding in his vision and turning into jigging white lines. He struck hard with his elbow, knowing the futility yet having to try. A resounding thud told him that he'd struck the low edge of the chest plate. The spot was vulnerable to a blaster shot, but his elbow did no damage, not even eliciting a grunt from Onoff.

In desperation, Tavis threw his weight back, lifting his feet. His entire weight hit Onoff awkwardly as Tavis' boots touched down on a tree trunk. He pushed off, essentially running up the trunk. Onoff realized what he was doing and staggered backward, falling to one knee and dragging Tavis back under the water with him.

Tavis' back hit a rock under the water and the air tried to rush from his lungs, but it had nowhere to go. The black spots expanded to fill his vision, and his limbs quit doing what he told them to.

The whole battle took less than thirty seconds, and it had been over before it began. Tavis never stood a chance. Quietly, resignedly, Tavis accepted this, as he accepted everything that had come before.

But, though it was over for Tavis, for Onoff, it had only just begun.

Onoff didn't know what launched itself from the water and hit him full in the chest, the force of its impact overpowering him and making him release Tavis. A screeching sound told of claws (or possibly teeth) cutting furrows in the chest plate of his armor. He heard a piercing whistling or hissing, smelled the hot, stinking breath of a carnivore right in his face.

The impact knocked him onto his back and he hit the water with a loud splash. He put his arms up to protect his throat and face as either teeth or claws sharp as razors sliced for his throat. Despite the thickness of his armor, it took less than three blows for him to feel the deadly sharpness of his assailant's weaponry. He still didn't know what had attacked him, the water largely blinded him, even as the pushing from his assailant drove him up against a rock and halfway out of it. A roar of fury as loud as the thunder split the air, hot breath and thick saliva splashed in waves across his arms and face, and he felt his blood run cold.

 _Theran_.

The others couldn't have seen from the bank, not with the trees blocking the view and water up to the chest hiding what Onoff was doing beneath the surface of it. But Theran saw. Theran knew. And Theran, though short enough that he was forced to swim, was swift enough to cross the distance between the bank and the copse in the seconds it had taken to bring down Tavis.

Onoff's entire mind was consumed with trying to get out from under the hideously powerful beast that was sitting on him. Motion kept flashing at him from both sides. He knew it was just Theran's wings flapping, but instinct made him flinch each time. They were all motion and noise, but no impact. However, they provided sufficient distraction for him to make the mistake of leaving his neck unguarded for a split second. Theran's broad muzzle flashed down in an instant, serrated teeth sank into Onoff's neck. But Theran's aim was, for perhaps the first time in his life, slightly off, meaning the bite was not immediately a killing one. Theran eased his grip to adjust it.

Seeing a flicker of reflected light, Onoff drove his right thumb into what he hoped was Theran's eye. An ear piercing shriek said he'd struck something at least. The jaws parted and the weight heaved back off his chest as Theran stumbled backward. Onoff immediately fought to get his feet under him, gasping for the air that had been knocked from his lungs on impact, his head spinning.

Onoff staggered to his feet dizzily, when a second assailant hit him. This one he knew at once. This one he had sparred with. This one was Volk, and he was just as intent upon the kill as Theran had been.

He slammed Onoff back against the boulder and planted the muzzle of his blaster pistol against Onoff's helmet. He snarled inarticulately for a moment, then regained his grip on spoken language.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't blow you away right now!"

Onoff simply stared at him, his entire body wracked with shaking, and his utter inability to obey this command. The guilt came crashing in, and overwhelmed the fear which had sunk its claws into him the moment he'd seen that Bean was being guarded by Tavis, whom he had hoped and prayed never to see again, so that he would never have to carry out the devastating orders he'd been given. Violent shudders rippled through him and he avoided looking at Volk.

"Pay attention!" Volk slammed against Onoff to gain his focus, "You know I'll kill you. Give me a reason not to!"

Unbelief, the same thing which had prevented Tavis from reacting soon enough to save himself, now rendered Onoff mute. He had known that, if Volk discovered him trying to kill Tavis, the corporal would kill him. He had expected the death to be mercifully instantaneous. Volk was not a sentimental man, and would destroy any threat he perceived to the squad, without any hesitation. Onoff had counted on that one small mercy in all of this.

But what, if not fear, was it that Onoff heard in Volk's voice? What, if not some nonphysical pain, was making Volk shake? What, if not reluctant hesitation, had stopped Volk from shooting Onoff point blank?

"Why?" Volk asked, his voice growing thicker with that unbelievable yet all too real agony, "Can't you at least tell me that?" Onoff didn't need to see his eyes to know Volk was gazing at him searchingly, looking for some sign... of what?

What did he expect Onoff to say? What possible thing could Onoff say that would excuse what he'd just done?

He closed his eyes, trying not to sob. Sobbing was unbecoming of a GAR trooper. If nothing else, he was a soldier of the GAR, he'd proven that today. He'd followed orders, done as instructed despite the overwhelming desire not to do it. He'd done his duty... and killed his leader... and his friend.

Hearing a sound not unlike a choked down whimper, Onoff opened his eyes. He didn't need to see Volk's face then to know. Volk was also trying to keep emotion in check, and not just anger. It only slowly dawned on Onoff just what he'd done to Volk, in addition to killing his friend and leader.

Volk trusted very few people in the world, but those few he trusted absolutely. Onoff was one of the privileged few... and he'd betrayed that trust. He'd hurt Volk more deeply than any droid, Temmie or shark ever could have. He'd cut a wound into Volk's soul, and that stifled whimper was the sound of pain that was the result of it bleeding. One of Volk's friends was already dead, and now he was looking for a reason, _any_ reason, not to execute another.

"I'm sorry," was all Onoff managed to say, his voice just barely a whisper, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," once he'd started saying it, he found it impossible to stop, "I'm sorry, Volk, I'm so sorry."

"Tay-vis," Theran's throaty voice distracted both of them.

When Volk had taken over with Onoff and Theran had recovered, he ducked his head and located Tavis under the water. Taking Tavis' shoulder gently in his teeth, he tugged the clone to the surface. He'd pushed the limp body up against a tree trunk and held it there with his body, his back claws anchored against the tree under the water. He nudged the unresponsive Tavis with his muzzle, and awkwardly tugged off the helmet with his front claws. Water poured out from under the helmet.

Theran's efforts were rewarded with a single cough, and then Tavis began to move.

Volk and Onoff stood frozen where they were for a moment, staring in surprise. It turned out that Onoff had only rendered Tavis unconscious. Theran's quick thinking in bringing Tavis to the surface prevented him from subsequently drowning. But he was still unconscious. Onoff felt a knee-weakening surge of relief, coupled almost equally with renewed fear, the two combining to silence him once more.

The delay was enough to bring the rest of the squad to the spot, each of them more baffled than the last. All, that is, except for Rafe, who had known from the start what was happening.

"Let him go, Volk," Rafe ordered.

"But-" Volk began.

"Let. Him. _Go_ ," Rafe repeated, stressing each word, "Tend to your friend," he nodded towards Tavis.

Volk growled, but could not be sure that Rafe had issued the order Onoff had followed, so he could not justify shooting the sergeant and taking over the squad. Not yet, anyway. Grudgingly, he let go of Onoff, but he did not back off and it was Doc and Damyu who relieved Theran of his burden.

Theran immediately returned his attention to Onoff. He snarled and cut across the water like a crocodile, but an upheld hand by Volk stayed him. He snapped his jaws, splashing the water with his wings, but withheld his attack. The eye Onoff had jabbed was mostly closed, but it was impossible to say how much damage might have actually been done. The other eye fairly glowed with anger.

Nobody knew what to say or do. They each felt helpless in their confusion and anger, not knowing how to react or deal with what had just happened. Hesitantly, as though half afraid it might bite him, Damyu picked up Tavis' discarded helmet. Then he just stood, holding onto it uncertainly. No one else reacted any better.

Rafe could _feel_ the squad coming unraveled around him. One of their own had attacked -tried to kill- one of their own. It didn't make sense to them, and they seemed unable to cope with it. They could survive so much, roll with the punches and deal with a changing and uncertain future, but this -of all things in the universe- they could not cope with. They had no means of understanding or accepting what had happened to them, because they had not previously believed that it _could_ happen.

He had to do something, to help them regain their focus and grounding before they became hopelessly mired in their own confusion and mounting fear, unable to escape from a state of unbelief and the sense of betrayal that was threatening now to swallow them whole. But what could he do?

Then Tavis coughed and finally roused. He shook his head, and nearly lost his balance. But Doc was hanging onto him. When he seemed more stable, Damyu handed him his helmet, which he put on before looking at anyone or trying to speak. When he did, he seemed to be ignoring the whole incident, as though it hadn't even happened.

"Volk, I'm afraid you'll have to take over point," he said, his voice barely a whisper, "As I'm unable to."

"Tavis..." Volk began, but could not seem to find any words to follow the name.

"Go ahead," Tavis encouraged, "We're sitting ducks out here up to our necks in water. This is neither the time nor the place to sort things out."

"Tavis, do you remember what happened?" Rafe asked uneasily.

"I remember plenty," he said, his voice harsh for a moment, "But it's not important right now. Volk."

Volk, of all of them, understood. He had long ago learned the hard way that the time to sort out one's feelings was when death was not nearby. The squad was at risk here. They could not afford to simply stand here, gawking at one another. Once they were back on relatively dry land, assuming nothing unexpected came up, then they could begin to sort themselves out.

"Theran," Volk growled, leaning close to the creature's head, "You keep an eye on Onoff, you hear?"

Theran hissed and slipped, serpent-like, through the water towards Onoff. He circled Onoff and hissed again. Onoff flinched, but Theran did not attack him, merely swam in a careful circle, his good eye aimed towards the clone, watchful for any sign of potential violence.

Volk paused to stare at Rafe, his thoughts unreadable, and then he set off toward the river bank.

Grim in their movement, Doc and Damyu followed, Garm and Bean went next. Onoff followed, keeping a respectful distance from Garm, who was eying him warily. Theran continued to circle him. With Phisher's help, Tavis managed to stand up without aid of the tree trunk he'd been leaning against, and they made limping progress through the water. Rafe waited for them to get across before taking the rear.

He knew it could be the last thing he ever did, because Volk on the shore was watching him, and he suspected that the corporal knew the truth. It came as a surprise that Volk didn't shoot him while he was still in the water. But Rafe reached the opposite bank unharmed, even though Volk had to know that Onoff had not acted alone. Someone had given him his orders. And that someone was Rafe.


	24. Absolute Power

Volk, for all his reputation as a suspicious and cunning individual, had not seen this coming. He could not resolve events into anything that made sense to him. He found himself looking to Caden for an answer, because Caden always seemed to have such a keen grasp of others. Since leaving Onithera, Volk had come to rely on Caden's perception and -to a lesser extent- his talents for manipulation to keep _Fortune_ and himself out of trouble. But Caden wasn't here.

Today, however, understanding did not belong to the cleverest among them, but the simplest of them. Onoff had unintentionally given Damyu all the information he needed to understand what had happened. It was, perhaps, the first time Damyu had understood something before his brothers did.

"Those were the orders you didn't want to follow," Damyu said, when the silence stretched across the squad had reached its breaking point, "It's what Rafe told you to do, what you couldn't tell me."

That neither Onoff nor Rafe denied it was taken as confirmation. As a unit, they swung their attention from Onoff to Rafe. Rafe stood, surrounded by them, knowing that they had blood roaring in their veins, their flickering distrust now a screaming flame of open hatred. Volk, as though forgetting he had a blaster, reached for the knife sheathed at his belt. Rafe made no move towards his weapons.

"You son-of-a-bitch," Bean spoke in a low growl, the only one who seemed to remember he had a voice at all, "You're the same idiot I trained alongside, always a killer first, justifying murder after the fact. You haven't changed at all. You're the same monster that tried to kill me then; only now you've turned on Tavis, a clone you hadn't even met until yesterday."

Rafe said nothing in his own defense, but Tavis did.

"Enough," his voice was quiet, hoarse, but had the effect of a blaster shot on the squad.

Rafe remained motionless as the others moved around behind him so they could face Tavis, but still have him in view. Onoff had his back against a tree, and Theran stood before him, snarling, but otherwise all attention turned towards Tavis, who waved off Phisher, who had assisted him to shore.

Before he continued speaking, Tavis tried shifting his weight. It clearly hurt him, but his right leg could bear him, and he took a step closer to the squad as if to prove he could do it, though it wasn't clear who he was proving it to or why.

"I gave Rafe, and everyone like him, plenty of reason."

"Tavis, no," Bean warned, and there was an uncomfortable shift, as the squad realized that Tavis -whom they trusted above all others- had a secret of his own.

"They need to know," Tavis said to Bean, "They need to understand why Rafe did what he did."

Their uncertainty had turned to anger, but now it was slowly churning into panic. Their world, everything they had built and believed in, was crumbling around them, and there seemed no solid place for them to stand anymore. They had learned when the GAR betrayed them that they had only each other, that they must trust one another... that they _could_ trust one another. And now, that one fragment of faith and security they had was shattering right before their eyes, leaving them with nothing.

"Tavis, you did nothing wrong," Bean protested, "You didn't deserve what happened."

"You can't know that," Tavis replied in his soothing, gentle way

"Someone better tell us something!" Volk practically shouted, "Or I'll shoot the whole lot of you, mission or no mission! Do you all understand?" he cast fierce looks at Onoff, Bean, Rafe and Tavis.

Onoff cringed in the face of his anger, Bean gazed back defiantly, but Rafe and Tavis were staring at each other, and both ignored Volk completely. Still, it was Tavis who eventually spoke.

"I killed a Jedi."

The squad, on the whole, failed utterly to react with shock or disbelief. Nor did it appear to increase their comprehension of the situation. This was the most obvious instance of difference from ordinary clones. Any ordinary clone, hearing such a statement, would have shot Tavis immediately, or at the very least arrested him (as circumstances permitted). But _Fortune_ merely stood there, like they were waiting for Tavis to get to the part where they actually cared.

"Come on, Tay, there's more to it than that," Bean encouraged, when Tavis remained silent.

"He's right," Tavis said, "I incited other clones to the same violence. I convinced thirty five clone troopers to turn on their master and murder her, which in turn led fully two thirds of them to their immediate deaths, the rest to follow shortly."

So that was it. Tavis had committed treachery, and led other clones to do the same. Not only that, but he had gotten them killed in the attempt. This, they could begin to understand. Just hours before, they had seen a GAR post burned to the ground. They had seen the bodies, the result of some traitorous spy in their ranks. _That_ was a reality they understood, but could not reconcile with the Tavis they knew.

It was Rafe who asked the relevant question. A question he regretted not having asked before. He had assumed Tavis was a monster, or a coward, or both. But the man he had met was not the one he'd expected. And he had come to know that the squad, _Fortune Actual_ , would not just accept any leader. Tavis had won their loyalty somehow, and that didn't fit with Rafe's idea of what Tavis was. The pieces he'd been given did not fit together, but only now did he think to question it.

"Why?"

" _Now_ he asks why," Bean scoffed, every word edged with anger, then he turned towards Rafe, "Shoulda thought of that before you gave orders to the one soldier who could not help but obey you, before you committed someone else to the act you were too much of a coward to take on for yourself."

"Bean," Tavis did not shout, but spoke levelly, "Enough."

The rebuke, spoken in a voice soft as velvet, had the effect of a whiplash. Bean flinched as though stricken, and lowered his gaze. But Tavis did not pay attention to him, instead answering Rafe's question with one of his own.

"Does it matter?" he inquired, "Isn't that I did it enough?"

"If it was, would the GAR have allowed you to live? Or the Jedi?"

Bean looked like he wanted to demand to know why Rafe hadn't stopped to consider that sooner. Volk looked like he was just short of strangling the sergeant with his bare hands. But Tavis had stayed him, had stopped them all in their tracks, and there they would remain until he released them, or finished what he had to say. That was the power Tavis had over them. Power neither Volk nor Rafe could even come close to, much less match.

"A question none of my brothers has so far thought to ask," Tavis said, "Not even Bean."

"So answer it," Rafe said.

"I killed her because what she was no longer a Jedi inside. She had all of the power, but none of the wisdom. Jedi are keepers of the peace, but she had become a creature of war, violence, and cruelty."

"Elaborate," Rafe insisted when Tavis paused longer than he cared for.

"Her name was Oliana Alzena," Tavis began, "Her master was killed in the campaign for Ecanor. Because of her age, and because the Jedi are stretched thin, she was declared a master. She was granted the rank of general, but served as a captain. At the time I was assigned to serve under her, she was acting as a platoon leader, though she acted more independently than any of us would have. We didn't know it then, but she acted in defiance of her general, ignoring orders and pretending to never have even received them."

"Why?" Rafe asked again.

"Power. So long as we were in the field, out of contact with the rest of the regiment, she wielded absolute power over us. She could do anything she liked with us... anything," Tavis trailed off, attempting to suppress a shudder but not entirely succeeding.

"I don't understand," Rafe said, "All Jedi have such power over us, including Padawans. Even should we want to disobey an order and break the chain of command, they could force us to obey them."

"Oliana Alzena was not just any Jedi," Tavis said, his voice hoarser than his recent near-death experience could account for, "In fact, at the time of her death, it is doubtful she was a Jedi at all."

"So far you've done everything but answer the question. You've talked in vague generalities, used a lot of words but effectively said nothing," Rafe pointed out, "You're being evasive, Tavis, yet you've admitted to committing a crime that would, under ordinary circumstances, get you shot on sight. But, clearly, the circumstances were anything but ordinary, or else you wouldn't be standing here. Yet you continue to avoid explaining the nature of the extraordinary circumstances. I'll ask you one more time, Tavis: why?"

Tavis cocked his head, remaining silent for a long moment. Finally, he sighed.

"Have you ever been propositioned?"

"Excuse me?"

"A clone cannot say 'no' to a Jedi. As you pointed out, even if we wanted to, control of both mind and body can be taken from us by a Jedi as easily as we would dispatch a droid with a blaster."

"But, Jedi can't... I mean, they're not allowed... I... uh," Rafe, who had been the sole member of the squad to still have use of his tongue, now seemed to be losing that.

There were strict rules governing clones concerning sexual or romantic encounters. Specifically, they weren't allowed to have them. But it was inevitable that clones knew about that kind of thing. They also knew that such things didn't not even bear considering insofar as the Jedi were concerned. Clones could not be sure of the rules for the Jedi, but it was common knowledge that no Jedi participated in the kind of behavior that Tavis had just implied. The assumption of clones was that they weren't allowed.

"Now you know why I was being evasive," Tavis told him, seeming amused for a moment before sobering and continuing his story, "It wasn't the only game she played, and it wasn't even that bad at first. Actually, we didn't even realize it was happening. She'd say and do things that confused us, or made us uncomfortable, but that's what Jedi do."

"But..." this time, Rafe was only capable of summoning one word before giving up.

"At first," Tavis went on, as though Rafe had not interrupted, "she was just experimenting. Testing her power, figuring out how she liked to use it. The first time she kissed one of us, he was so stunned he didn't even respond, in any way at all. She then went about her business like nothing had happened, and he said nothing of it."

Clones weren't in the habit of reporting the behaviors of Jedi. Though they kept tabs on one another, and were in fact trained to do just that, they had no such rules about Jedi. From the clones' perspective, Jedi were allowed to do anything they liked, and it was the job of the clones to follow them. There were checks and balances in place to keep the clones in line, but none for the Jedi.

"I was the first to question it," Tavis said, "the first to see her for what she truly was. The others didn't believe me. I was a temporary replacement for one of their wounded, they didn't know me, and already thought I was odd enough. I let it go. Maybe if I hadn't..." he stopped himself, "Well, it doesn't matter now."

This time when he paused, nobody urged him to continue. After a few seconds to gather what shredded remains of his composure as he could, Tavis went on.

"Once we were deployed, things got much worse. She was learning to enjoy making us uncomfortable, and it was a short hop from that to enjoy hurting us," on this point, he did not elaborate, nor did Rafe ask for clarification. Rafe was beginning to deeply regret having asked 'why' in the first place.

"We didn't see a lot of battle. When we started questioning her behavior amongst ourselves, she gave us orders not to use the radio. We didn't even think to realize why she didn't want us calling anyone. We just assumed that she had a good reason for demanding our radio silence. We were so used to following Jedi, just doing what we were told, we didn't even think about it.

"She did other things as well. She encouraged us to spar with one another, and gave us whatever push we needed to escalate the violence, either with a word... or something more subtle. Eventually, we drew more blood out of each other than the few Seppies we encountered. She had her favorites too. Those of us she liked, she held in reserve if we encountered droids. Any that she didn't like, for whatever reason, she'd send out to fight -evidently in the hopes that they'd get themselves killed.

"The thing that finally pushed us over the edge was what she told me when I was her favorite one night. There had been others. We were not the first clones she'd done this to, nor were we likely to be the last. She also expressed a certain desire to... do away with the Jedi Master she was serving under, so she could take over more of us. If any of us became too much trouble, or opposed her too strongly, she could kill us, or have one of our brothers do it for her."

"So the Jedi also acquire power before the wisdom to control it," Rafe said, as though a light had dawned on him for the first time.

"Yes," Tavis answered as if it had been a question, "Anyway, it was obvious to me that she had to be stopped. At any cost. So when we ran into a platoon of clankers unexpectedly, I drew some of the others aside and talked to them while she was distracted. They were reluctant at first, but they had learned to fear her as much as I did. They spread the word through the ranks. She picked me again that night. It was her final mistake."

Tavis didn't have to go into details of what had followed. They all knew the power of the Jedi, and knew that thirty six clones stood almost no chance at all unless the Jedi was otherwise occupied or had become weak somehow. It was likely that Oliana's own disbelief at the clones' rebellion had been her undoing, just as it had been Tavis' a few minutes ago. Only the consequences for her were more permanent. Still, it was now obvious what Tavis had meant when he said that two thirds of their number had been led to their deaths. Oliana had surely killed them.

"We had no concrete evidence, and I encouraged the others to run. I intended to take the full blame for it, and say they had been killed. But they wouldn't go. We explained what happened as best we were able. There had been some suspicion about Oliana's actions in the past, but the Jedi were too busy with the war effort to investigate it. They believed us, and let us go."

"But the reason _why_ never went into the records," Rafe said.

"Either it was an oversight, or it was on purpose. Possibly the Jedi didn't want the knowledge that one of their own had gone so bad made public. Possibly they didn't think it mattered. Those of us who survived were alive on their authority, and they probably thought that was enough."

"How little they know of us," Rafe remarked.

"And we of them," Tavis agreed.


	25. Price of Arrogance

There were some things which needed no explanation, and which bore no discussion. Such as why Rafe had picked Onoff as his assassin. Of them, Onoff was the only one bound absolutely by the chain of command. He did as he was told, he could do nothing else. His file, which Rafe had assuredly read, contained that information. It also revealed the drawback to Onoff.

Onoff would carry out his orders. Once set on his course, his orders could not be canceled until he had accomplished the task. Not only couldn't he resist instruction, he could not be recalled after being sent out. Onoff would kill Tavis, or die in trying. He had no other option.

Obviously, Onoff had no wish to die. He had waited for his chance to attack, looking for an opportunity when he would be likely to succeed, and equally likely to go undetected as Tavis' killer. And, had Rafe not been changing his mind about Tavis, he would have. Even given the observations Caden had shared with Volk, and the conversation Onoff had with Damyu, they would not have come to the conclusion that he had purposely killed Tavis unless they had seen him do it. In the murky water, it wouldn't be difficult to make Tavis' body disappear, or to claim something had attacked them and then fled.

"So you decided to take justice into your own hands," Bean was the first to speak, his anger towards Rafe far from spent.

"Beanie," Tavis spoke, but this time Bean didn't stop.

"But instead of doing it yourself, you did what you always do. You got somebody else to do your dirty work while you looked on. Too much a coward to face it yourself? Or did some part of you realize that what you were doing was wrong?"

"Bean," Tavis repeated, but Bean just glared at him before returning his gaze to Rafe.

"Don't defend him, Tavis. He's not worth it," Bean spat his fury quiet, but implacable, "You may be a sergeant, Rafe, but you have no idea what that even means. You didn't earn that rank, you stole it!"

"Bean!" Tavis at last raised his voice, grabbing Bean by the shoulder and turning him around, "That's enough."

"I don't think it is," Bean hissed, now almost equally angry with Tavis, but for a different reason, "He's too coward to kill you, and you're too much of a pushover to even try and stop him. He used Onoff -one of your men!- to try and kill you! Don't you get that? He tried to _murder_ you!"

"That is enough, Corporal Bean," this time it was Volk who spoke, his voice a low growl.

"You too, Volk?" Bean scoffed, shaking his head, "You, of all people. You should know better."

"I do," Volk's tone, though quiet, contained within it a malice, the animal instinct for violence that had been the center of Volk since time began for him, "But it is not my place, or yours, to be angry _for_ Tavis. He can do it well enough for himself."

"But I'm not angry," Tavis said, sounding almost frustrated, "Not with any of you. I never have been. I understand each of you better than you think. Even you, Rafe."

"I don't understand," Rafe said uncertainly, "I was... _so_ wrong."

"Yes, you were," Tavis replied, "But I've been wrong before too. And you are not the first to have tried to kill me in trying to protect this squad," he looked at Volk, "Volk, think about it. You once tried to kill me. Is what he did any more wrong than what you did? What we _both_ did?"

"He used Onoff-" Bean began, but Tavis interrupted him fiercely, still facing Volk.

"And we divided the whole squad against itself! We got our sergeant killed. We may not have killed him ourselves, but his blood is on our hands. Volk knows it too."

Volk remained silent throughout Tavis' tirade, his infamous temper showing not the slightest flicker. Tavis knew to aim his argument right at Volk. Nobody else mattered, but Volk's opinion made all the difference. If he decided that Rafe was a threat to the squad, then Volk would kill the sergeant before Tavis could stop him. The squad would not betray him to the GAR, but Volk would have that blood on his conscience. The regret, when he eventually came to his senses, would consume him. Tavis was unwilling to simply allow that.

"This wasn't just some lapse of judgment," Bean argued, "This could have gotten Tavis killed."

"It might get him killed yet," it was Phisher who spoke, and the sound of a non-clone voice amidst so many identical voices had the shocking effect of ice water.

Everyone turned towards him. Phisher was _not_ a clone. He did not think like a clone. And yet he worked with them peaceably, and it was known to every member of the squad that Onoff had become one of his closest friends. Wherever you found one, you found the other. Yet Phisher had remained true to the code of the GAR, and not interrupted while soldiers of higher rank debated the issue. It was not his place, as a mere private, to say anything unless his opinion was asked. And, up to this moment, he had kept his place. Now he was moved to point out what they all knew, but had been quietly ignoring.

"I'm sorry, Off," Phisher said, "But I have to."

Onoff said nothing, but merely inclined his head in acknowledgment. That single, slight movement, was sufficient to convey a world of hurt, understanding, and resignation. Onoff knew what would inevitably follow, even if nobody else had yet figured it out besides Phisher. He knew, and accepted without resentment, the nature of his fate.

"You gave him the order to kill, Sergeant," Phisher told Rafe, "In case it's escaped your notice, PFC Tavis is not dead."

"But I don't want him dead," Rafe protested, "I never should have. It was a mistake, I admit that."

"You should have thought of that earlier," Phisher's voice was uncharacteristically restrained, seemingly almost devoid of emotion of any kind, "Before you gave him that order."

"I didn't know-" Rafe began, but Phisher went on, ignoring him.

"Once deployed, Onoff cannot be recalled. You knew that," he turned his head, scanning the soldiers around him as though he could guess their thoughts, "You all know it."

"Phisher, no," Tavis was the first to figure out where he was going, "Not for me."

"Do it, Phisher," Onoff spoke and, though his voice shook, it held in it conviction, certainty, and no fear at all, "This is what I want."

"Phisher, no!" Tavis said again, this time he was echoed by Rafe, who understood too late to stop him.

In a smooth motion, one he'd practiced a thousand times but never with this enemy in mind, Phisher drew his blaster pistol from its holster, raised it, and fired point blank. Onoff, a hole in the center of his visor, was thrown back against a tree, whose trunk he then slid down. He collapsed, lifeless, into the mud.

"There," Phisher's voice was dead as he turned to look at Rafe, "Do you understand now? This is what you've done. This is what you did to us. That was my friend, Sergeant Rafe," suddenly he cracked, and though he stood motionless, his tone became half-hysterical, "My _friend_. Have you ever had such a thing? Someone you'd kill for, die for, do anything to protect? Do you have the faintest idea what that means!? Do you understand what you've done?! He never did anything to hurt anybody! Not until you... you used his weakness against him. And now you've destroyed him. That is the price of your arrogance. Your ignorance! You've made us kill one another! You've made us-" he choked on his own emotion, fury and anguish in equal measure fighting to tear their way out of him.

Rather than continue speaking, he turned away. Slowly, as though afraid the world itself would shatter if he moved too abruptly, Phisher stepped towards his fallen friend, and knelt down beside him. In silence, he gathered the dead soldier against him, and did what the others were incapable of. He cried. Without shame or self-consciousness, he wept openly for one whom he had called friend.

"It had to be this way, Tavis," Volk whispered quietly, putting his hand on Tavis' shoulder, "It wasn't just for you. We all knew that, someday, one of us would have to kill him. One day, that handicap of his was going to endanger us all, and we'd have to make a choice. Onoff knew it too. Who do you think he asked to kill him when the time came?"

Tavis stared helplessly at Phisher and Onoff for a long moment, then finally turned to Volk. He seemed unable to speak. He seemed suddenly drained. All the strength and stoicism he'd displayed up until now seemed to suddenly go out of him. His one good leg seemed to abruptly be unable to support him. He'd have dropped to the ground, but Volk caught him and held on.

"You knew, Tavis," Volk said, with empathy and gentleness which he had heretofore seemed utterly incapable of, "You knew this was how it had to end for him. We all did."

Tavis remained limp for a few seconds, then seemed to regain control of himself. He gripped Volk's arm as he steadied himself. Volk stood by him until he'd managed to get his balance. Then he stepped back and to the side. Tavis, straightening, returned his attention to Rafe, who was still staring at Phisher as though he couldn't believe, couldn't accept, that he was responsible for this.

"What you just saw, Sergeant, was devotion," Tavis said, his voice surprisingly strong and steady after his near-collapse, "What you saw just now was _Fortune Actual_."

Rafe seemed to have difficulty dragging his gaze from Phisher to rest on Tavis. He did not speak, there was nothing he could possibly say to this, to any of this.

"Your mistake cost a man his life, and destroyed whatever trust the squad may have had in you," Tavis went on after a brief pause, "I cannot speak for them. But I know why you did as you did. And I know you will not make this mistake again. And I know too, that you will never forgive yourself. But I... _I_ do."

"What?" Rafe didn't sound surprised, he sounded like he didn't even understand what Tavis had said.

"You did not give that order out of malice or hatred. You gave it because you wanted to protect this squad. You knew that one day I must return to it, and that you yourself would never be trusted enough by Volk to kill me. You felt I was a danger to the squad, because you knew they would follow me. And you thought I was a traitor. You believed that, when I returned, I would have _Fortune Actual_ betray the GAR, and very likely get them killed in the process. You did what you felt you had to. You did what you did not because you were afraid or angry. You did it to protect _Fortune_."

At last, Bean's protests were silenced. Tavis continued.

"Of all the things in this life that I do not understand, there is one thing I do understand without difficulty. And that is doing whatever is necessary to protect your people. I have never been a sergeant, but I know the burden they carry. The possible sacrifice of one, to save the others, is not easy. But it is a choice that you, as their sergeant, had to make, knowing that your men would never understand. But I understand, Rafe, even if they do not. I cannot find it in myself to trust you, but I can forgive. And that is what I choose to do now. There has been enough hatred and bloodshed between us already. I choose now to let it end here, now, like this. I choose to make this what Onoff died for."

"It should never have gone so far," Rafe said quietly, shaking his head.

"But it did," Tavis replied evenly, "And now we must move on. You are the sergeant of _Fortune Actual_ , and your responsibility to these men does not end just because you made a mistake. You cannot give up on them just because they have no faith in you. Give them a reason to follow you, Sergeant."

Rafe took a moment to collect himself, then nodded curtly. He looked around, taking in the aspect of each man in turn. Just a short time ago, all of these men were just words on a page to him. His gaze settled on Volk. The words written about the corporal could not fully convey his capacity for violence, his fierce temper or his vicious streak. And they did nothing at all to suggest his wisdom. Rafe had learned a little about that, even in the short time he had known Volk.

Even so, he did not believe Volk would forgo his desire for vengeance. He did not believe Volk would allow him to live, much less continue to lead _Fortune_. But Volk had never fit the textbook description of a GAR trooper. And now, he did not even fit the description the GAR had of him.

Stiffly, Volk dipped his head fractionally.

In that slight action, Volk gave Rafe a second chance that they both knew he did not deserve.

Rafe closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe. He felt as though he'd been holding his breath ever since he realized his mistake in setting Onoff on Tavis. He felt like he hadn't taken a breath of air in an age, but now he could suddenly breathe again. Tavis was right, Rafe could not forgive himself for his inexcusable error. But Volk -the vicious, temperamental corporal of _Fortune Actual_ , known for his violent ways and coldness towards outsiders; Volk, who had not wanted Rafe here in the first place, and whose devotion to Tavis was above his loyalty to the GAR or _Fortune_ itself- could.

"You're a better man than I ever could be," Rafe said to Volk.

"Perhaps," Volk conceded, "But, as Tavis so recently reminded me, you and I are not so very different."

"Oh?"

"As he said, you are not the first member of this squad to try and kill him."

There were many sides of Volk described in his records. So many that Rafe had had difficulty believing that they could all belong to the same person, or that the person could be stable if they did. Yet Volk had shown himself to be as solid as they came. And, here and now, he displayed a side his records did not indicate even existed. This was not the Volk Rafe had been prepared to meet. Nor was this Tavis the one he had believed existed. If the records could be so wrong about two clones, what else did the GAR have wrong?

"We'll..." he looked at where Phisher still knelt, holding tight to his friend's lifeless body, "We'll rest here... for awhile. Volk, you see to posting sentries."

"Sir," was the prompt response, sounding as if nothing had happened at all.

Sighing, Rafe walked to where Phisher was. He didn't know what to say, or what to do. Phisher wasn't even a clone, and Rafe realized he wouldn't have known how to handle this even if he was.

"Phisher..." Rafe waited for a reaction, but received none, "Phisher... there aren't... there aren't any words I could possibly say... there's nothing I could do that... could possibly make this alright. I don't... I don't expect you to forgive me... but I want you to know... I am... sorry. It's not enough. I know it isn't. Hell, if I said it a million times, it still wouldn't be enough. But it's all I have to give," he waited, but Phisher did not respond to him, "Phisher, I'm sorry."

Having said it, he left Phisher alone to grieve as the rest of them -because they were clones, trained to hold back their emotions, to deny such feelings even existed- could not. As Phisher grieved for his friend, he did not do it only for himself. Phisher mourned for them all.


	26. All That Remains

Rain. Always the rain. It was nothing but a light mist when the AT-TE reached the outskirts of the Anuri village, but its presence was felt nonetheless. However, it seemed to be the only presence, as the village looked deserted otherwise. The Anuri didn't keep animals, so there wasn't even a stray pet in sight, just empty streets and abandoned buildings.

Nattan spared two of his gunners to go and scout the settlement, look for signs of life. They returned shaking their heads, seeming just as baffled as they'd been when they left.

"Any sign that Seppies were here? Evidence of a fight, struggle, anything like that?" Nattan asked.

"No sir," one of the two scouts answered.

"It's like they just up and walked out on their own," the other one said, "no damage to structures, houses clear with doors shut and windows boarded up."

"Not for long though," the first supplied, "You know how fast the algae creeps up, and there isn't much on any of the buildings or equipment lying around. They can't have been gone even a week."

Nattan stood on the ground in front of where the AT-TE had parked, looking around and frowning. Like most of his kind, Nattan detested puzzles. He wasn't built to solve mysteries, it simply wasn't in his design. Frankly, he was less concerned with what had happened to the Anuri than what he was going to do with the wounded man. They'd come here for help, and somehow Logan had guided them through without getting them hopelessly stuck. But it all seemed to have been for nothing.

Nattan had risked his tank and the lives of his crew on nothing.

He accepted responsibility for that, but he wasn't exactly keen on giving up. They'd come so far that turning back now seemed ill-advised. Besides which, there probably wasn't anything to go back to. Surely _Fortune_ , if they were alive, would be heading back even now. It was getting dark, and Nattan knew his crew was exhausted. They couldn't return to where they'd started until morning. And by then, _Fortune_ would surely have been and gone already. They wouldn't wait around to see if the tank would come back, they had no good reason to.

However, they just might be able to follow the trail it had left. Nattan wasn't sure any member of _Fortune_ was a tracker but, if they were, they'd likely follow the tank's trail all the way here. He had more than a little faith in the thought that they would come searching for their missing one. Certainly everything Nattan had witnessed of the squad suggested that kind of loyalty.

Nattan knew he'd do the same if one of his own went missing. The tank crew was not his to lose track of, they were his to protect as possible and use to the best advantage of the GAR. Losing track of one of them was counter to that duty. Corporal Volk, at the least, would not be satisfied until he found his missing man. Sergeant Rafe was new to the squad, but he had the qualities to go with the rank from what Nattan had seen. _Fortune_ , if it survived, and if the tank's tracks weren't eliminated by all the rain, would come to find them for sure.

But was staying here wise? The scouts reported no sign of the enemy, or the Anuri. There was no evidence of danger. But, though Nattan was not very experienced with civilization, he knew an empty village signified something, usually bad. But the empty villages he was used to seeing had been burned, and there were bodies in the street, doors which had been kicked in, that kind of thing. This village was just... empty.

Nattan's thoughts were interrupted by Logan sticking his head out of the tank.

"Hey, Sarge, your friend's awake again."

"I've got other things to deal with, right now," Nattan said.

"I know," Logan said, but persisted, "Sir, he asked where we were, and as soon as I told him at the village, he said he knew what had happened to it."

"Is he lucid?" Nattan inquired, not eager to waste his time.

"Seems to be," Logan replied, then shrugged, "But I'm not sure I'd know the difference if he wasn't."

Nattan wasn't sure if this was Logan's way of reminding Nattan that he wasn't a medic, or if he was merely indirectly expression the level of his exhaustion. Knowing Logan, probably both.

Nattan sighed, "Alright. Can't do any harm to listen to him anyway."

* * *

Phisher felt totally numb, except for the tremendous weight against his chest. He'd finally let go of Onoff's body, but he hadn't found the strength to actually stand up.

It had been necessary. He knew that. And yet, he felt guilty. The plain fact was that he had committed murder. He had killed a defenseless man. Worse, that man had been his friend. That Onoff had not only given him permission, but actually asked for it, didn't make him feel a bit better. Nor did knowing why it had to be done.

A long time ago, before he had known Phisher wasn't a clone like himself, Onoff had explained the nature of his worst fear. Onoff knew he had a psychological inability to disregard commands, even if the one who'd given the command tried to cancel the order. It had been his worst fear that he would get someone killed because of it. After Onithera, he had been more aware of it than ever.

Bean had been given orders to shoot _Fortune_ , but he'd made the decision not to. He had decided that the orders did not make sense, and he could not in good conscience carry them out. It was a choice that Onoff was incapable of making. The chain of command, for him, was unbreakable. One day, he knew that it would choke him, and that he might not be the one to pay the ultimate price for it.

If it had not been Rafe, it would have eventually been someone else. Probably someone who didn't have _Fortune_ 's best interests at heart. Onoff had known it. He couldn't have imagined it would be like this, but he knew that his weakness could get his brothers killed.

Onoff had, after Onithera, told about a recurring nightmare he had, in which he was given the order to destroy a group of targets. Only when he approached did he realize that the orders were a mistake, and he'd been sent to kill a bunch of GAR troopers. He couldn't stop, and killed them all. After telling Phisher about it, and explaining how it could too easily come true, Onoff had asked Phisher to do something for him. If he ever became a direct danger to _Fortune_ or any other GAR soldiers, he asked Phisher to kill him. Phisher had agreed to do so, knowing that, sooner or later, he would have to make good on that promise.

Phisher wasn't a clone. Up to now, he had never had to kill anything but droids and the occasional savage beast trying to do him in. On Onithera, he had killed animals for food. And he had once had to shoot to kill a squad of clones who'd gone rogue. But that was different. They had been trying to kill him. And they had also been acting more like animals than people at the time. Besides, Phisher wasn't actually certain he'd killed any of them himself.

Dimly, he realized that Tavis had knelt down beside him. He wondered how long Tavis had been there. Tavis, whose life had been spared because of Phisher's actions. Tavis, who had the grace not to say anything, to just sit in silence and let Phisher work it out for himself.

"How am I supposed to live with what I've done?" Phisher asked, not really expecting an answer.

He got one anyway.

"In a galaxy of uncountable millions, we are each of us alone," Tavis replied, "We each must find the truth of ourselves, and live with all that we do, or fail to do."

"Where did you go? What happened to you?" Phisher asked, "Why didn't you come back?"

"By the time I learned how to bear my own burdens, and deal with what I'd become, you had already been deployed. It was far more logical to send me out with the first unit that needed an extra body than to try and get me back where I belonged," Tavis hesitated, "But, I _should_ have been here. I knew I needed to be here... I should have found a way. I didn't. And now I have to live with that."

"Tavis," Phisher shook his head, "You're only a clone in the GAR, a pawn of the Jedi and Republic. You do not, and never will, have the power to go against them."

"Maybe. Maybe not. Now we'll never know. Onoff paid the price for my not trying," he paused, then added quietly, "And so have you. You should never have been in that position, Phisher. It shouldn't have happened. But it did. And there's nothing I can say that will make this better, for any of us."

"I knew this would happen. Someday it had to," Phisher said, his voice shaking, "I knew that, if I stayed, I would have to do this. That I would have to live with this. I didn't belong to the GAR, not like you. I could have left... I could have just gone home, forgot any of this ever happened."

"And left Onoff alone?" Tavis said, "Left him alone with that fear?"

Phisher looked at Tavis in surprise.

"No, he never mentioned it to me. But it wasn't hard to guess. What greater fear is there for any of us than losing control of ourselves and hurting the people we care about most?"

Phisher had no answer for that, and remained silent.

"If you had left, you'd have left Onoff alone with everyone's worst nightmare, and no way out. Yet you chose to stay. You gave him hope. Not that he would escape his fate, but that he might not hurt anyone he cared about when his time eventually came. You gave him that, at great cost to yourself. You were his friend, because a true friend doesn't leave when things get rough. They carry you through. Onoff depended on you, and you came through for him when he needed it the most, no matter how much it injured you. You knew that this was a pain you'd have to live with for the rest of your life. You did that for him. I can't tell you how to deal with this, but I hope you'll remember that you didn't do this _to_ Onoff. You did it _for_ him. That made all the difference in the world to him. And to me."

Tavis rested his hand on Phisher's shoulder briefly. Then he stood and walked away.

Phisher sat for a moment more. But then, almost to his surprise, he found he had the strength to stand.

Perhaps he always had.

* * *

Caden was sitting propped up by the inner wall of the tank. He was obviously much physically weaker than before; it was doubtful that he could move much for himself at all anymore. But, evidently, his mind was still quite sharp, if he'd been alert enough to ask where they were and what was happening, process the answers and then come up with a theory of what had happened.

"How do you feel?" Nattan asked, realizing it was a perfectly foolish question.

"Like I've been stepped on," Caden replied, his breath wheezing audibly, "But I didn't ask for you so I could complain about your driving."

"I suppose not," Nattan said, "Logan tells me you have a theory about what happened to the village."

"It's not a theory," Caden told him, "I don't think; I know."

"I stand corrected. So, report then."

"You remember the swarm?" at Nattan's nod, Caden went on, "Well, it's been bothering me where they went to. They were still with us during the flood, right?" Nattan nodded again, "So where did they go?"

"I have no idea," Nattan answered.

"Neither did I. Why would a hungry swarm leave a perfectly good meal behind?" Caden answered himself, "Unless they detected an easier one nearby."

"I don't follow," Nattan admitted.

"Based on our brief experience, these insects fed on energy, whether from living or mechanical beings. They also bite, suggesting they could consume flesh, if they chose."

It abruptly made sense. The closed doors, boarded up windows.

"They were trying to shut them out."

"We had armor to protect us. But can you imagine what would happen to an unprotected body if thousands of those things descended? There wouldn't be time to even move. You'd be dead before you knew it."

"Shouldn't the Anuri have developed a means of protecting themselves?"

"They did," Caden replied, "The Anuri are amphibious creatures. The swarm probably can't swim. The same flood that brought them out of the woodwork should have protected the Anuri."

"But it didn't. Why not?"

"Most races eventually come to a point where they start going against nature, and trying to control it. They usually do this before they have the power to do so."

"I don't follow."

"The Anuri didn't want to go in the water. Maybe there's some kind of predator in the water that they're afraid of, or maybe they just resent having to hide. So they decided to defy the nature of their existence. They probably developed some kind of repellent that works most of the time. But, every now and then, a special storm unleashes the swarm from wherever they normally thrive. I have a theory about that. In their millions, the imperative to move as one, and to feed, overrides the effect of whatever repellent the Anuri have," he paused, and coughed, "Or possibly it's been so long that they forgot what they were using the repellent for. If they haven't seen the swarms in generations, it would be easy for the reality to become a myth in their minds. A superstition. The repellent a custom they abandoned."

"And you figured all that out just sitting in here by yourself?" Nattan asked, in some disbelief.

"Not only from that. I've been to the Anuri villages, and I've talked to the people some. There were clues all over the place, but they didn't come together until I knew about the swarms."

"And yet, you retained information that was seemingly irrelevant at the time."

"That's my thing," Caden said, "I'd be a damn sorry tactician if I didn't remember everything that might be relevant some day, wouldn't I?"

"I suppose that's true," Nattan agreed, "But where does that leave us?"

"I expect the swarm is long gone, to hibernate in its hole until the next storm calls it out to feed. Could be a year from now, or twenty. I don't have enough information to make a guess."

"So there aren't any bodies because the swarm... ate them?"

"Precisely," Caden coughed again, and his breathing became shakier for a moment while he rode out some internal pain, "And then they went back to their hole."

"Their hole... as in... a Suicide Hole?"

'Suicide Hole' was what troopers had taken to calling the Morassin dead zones, since it was generally considered suicide to enter one, whether you were GAR trooper or Separatist or even an Anuri. Anybody who went in, didn't come out again.

"That's my guess."

Before Nattan could put together another sentence, Logan was at him again.

"Nat, there's an Anuri waiting outside the tank. He says he can help us."

Nattan looked at Caden, but the PFC said nothing.

"Looks like your theory just got shot down," Nattan remarked.

"Maybe," Caden whispered under his breath as Nattan left, "But I don't think so."


	27. Personality Conflict

It seems an unlikely coincidence that, many miles away, Caden should be composing a theory about just what lay inside the Suicide Holes at the same time as _Fortune Actual_ approached one. Only Theran seemed to be aware of it. The air smelled of death to him, and he was hyper-aware of the fact that there were no sounds of animals or insects. Suicide Holes were invariably set in valleys, ringed by hills, so that they looked from above rather like a giant bowl sitting on the planet surface. Not that anybody had flown low over them and survived. Caden now knew why that was. He was not the only one.

Hissing savagely, Theran stood at the base of the hills, swinging his head back and forth and stomping his feet. He wasn't only refusing to climb them, but actively trying to prevent Volk (once again on point) from doing so either. He had never stood in Volk's way before. In blatant defiance of all accepted animal logic, he had followed Caden and the rest of the squad everywhere, even to waiting for them to pass through doorways first and refusing to eat his meals until the others had their own. Until now.

Once, long ago, Caden had asserted his dominance over Theran, even to teaching the chick some basic commands so that he could function in the unit even without benefit of understanding the language as he seemed to now. But since then, Theran had become aware of his own strength. That had never seemed like an issue. But it certainly seemed to be one now.

"Move, Theran," Volk growled, but Theran merely hissed and lowered his head into a striking position.

Theran was quick and powerful, but Volk had still bested him in sparring matches because his instinct for violence and killing was better honed and practiced than Theran's. Theran was built to be a predator, but active warfare was not in his genes as it was in Volk's.

Volk had never tested his authority over Theran, but it was a given that Theran respected his strength, as well as recognizing his control over the others, including Caden. It was this, and Caden's urging, that had forced Theran to go with the squad, when his preference would have been to wait behind with the one he thought of as his master, and parent. This was his first display of open defiance.

Volk couldn't understand what it was. The only thing he could think was that Theran had decided they'd gone quite far enough from Caden, and was insisting that they go back. He did not recognize the signs of the Suicide Hole, preoccupied with his own disordered and chaotic thoughts.

In comparison with Theran, the clones' senses were very dull, and they did not by the very fact of their existence feel the pulse of life around them as Theran did. Theran could not ignore what he felt, smelled and heard around him. But the clones failed to notice any of it by a combination of weaker senses and distracted minds.

Theran snarled again and mock charged, trying to convince Volk in every way he knew that this was not a direction they should go. Theran didn't have the words to explain what he knew, and he had long understood that Volk had little more respect for words than he himself did. Words were a weak means of communication, so imprecise, so easily misunderstood, and too easily overused.

"Theran, stop it!" Volk wasn't surprised when Theran snapped at him, but he was infuriated; he pulled out his blaster pistol and aimed it for Theran's head, "I said 'stop it'. And I meant it. Don't make me do this, Theran. One of us dead is enough for today."

Volk understood the very real danger that both he, and the rest of the squad, was in. If Theran could get away with threatening them, he could get away with dominating them. Or even eating them. He was a hundred pounds and already stronger and faster than any of them. And he was only going to get bigger. A lot bigger.

Theran lowered his body, giving up his aggressive stance, but refusing to slink out of the way. Shaking his head side to side, Theran began to tremble. He believed Volk's threat. As an adult, he would have spines on his wings that would act almost like armor plating, making him virtually invulnerable to any attack he could see coming. But he wasn't there yet. Volk could kill him. They both knew it.

Theran understood the mechanics of a blaster, at least to the degree that he knew it was an object. Volk only had the upper hand while wielding such an object, he was not in and of himself more powerful. If Theran wanted to beat him down the line, he had only to outsmart him. Maybe Theran couldn't do that yet, and maybe he could. In any case, if Theran really wanted to go to war with Volk, it was only a matter of biding his time.

It was Garm who intervened, leaving Bean behind with Rafe and moving up through the ranks until he was beside Volk. He put a hand on Volk's arm to stay him.

"Theran," he said, and the creature snapped his head in Garm's direction, "What are you so upset about? Why are you angry? Is this about what happened earlier?" no response, "Is it about Caden?" no response, so Garm tried again, "Is it about what happened to Onoff?"

Theran hissed again, but it was plaintive. He looked over his shoulder, making exaggerated nervous movements. A shudder rippled through him and he hissed again.

"Bad," Theran said, shaking his whole body this time, "Bad."

Volk relaxed ever so slightly, but Garm didn't release his arm, not until he moved to put his blaster away. He knew he didn't need it. He never had. He should have trusted that he never would. But he'd seen Theran's challenge and responded to it without even thinking about it. His training, his instincts, and the fact that his squad had just about ripped itself to shreds only a few hours before had gotten in the way. Instinct had bid him meet the challenge instantly, and so did his training. His ragged nerves, frayed to the limit, had made him see a threat where none existed.

 _Caden would have known better_ , he thought.

"There's something over this hill he doesn't like," Garm said unnecessarily, as they both had grasped what Theran was trying to explain to them.

"Yeah, but it's a long way around," Volk said, looking over his shoulder.

Garm didn't need to follow the look. He knew where it led to. The kick to the knee Tavis had suffered had left him barely able to walk, and he couldn't manage much in the way of speed. Even had that not been the case, the fact remained that Bean, accustomed to flying a ship rather than walking distances, was beginning to show signs of fatigue. The others weren't far behind him. The incident at the river had left them all raw, worn out and nervous. If they had to go much farther, they'd simply fall apart.

 _Fortune Actual_ was perilously close to ceasing to exist.

Volk took a step towards the hills.

"Bad!" Theran screeched, stepping forward and bumping Volk with his muzzle, not really trying to force him back, but giving notice that it was what he wanted Volk to do.

"We get it!" Volk yelled, moving forward so abruptly Theran swung his head around and parted his jaws in preparation for a bite, "Bad place! Bad things! Whatever! But, unless you can tell us what the 'bad' is, we have to see it for ourselves. Wait here if you're so scared, but do not stand in my way again."

Theran flattened as Volk shouted at him, and the clone stepped pointedly over his tail. Volk didn't have to verbalize a threat to make it clear to Theran. Theran looked skyward, the clouded sky reflecting in his dark eyes. He could hear buzzing in the air. He knew what it was. He knew they should wait. He _knew_.

But he didn't have the words.

"You had no call to do that," Garm said, scrambling to catch up with Volk.

"We don't have time to play with Theran's feelings, Garm. This squad is falling apart, and we're running out of time on all fronts."

"And you just thought you'd hurry the process along, did you?"

Volk turned on Garm, fury rising in him, starting to say, "This is the shortest path, and we all know it!"

Garm had never once talked back to him. Garm wasn't the type. He followed orders happily, content to let others make the hard choices. He'd always had Volk's back, and been a lively and willing guardian of the squad as a whole. If even steady, stable Garm was coming apart, the squad really was in trouble.

But whatever response Volk had prepared died on his tongue as he realized what Garm was pointing out. Theran had composed a response to Volk. And that response was to leave. Volk looked around, but Theran was nowhere in sight. Volk knew that the Onitheran had to be heading back to Caden, abandoning the rest of the squad to its fate. How long before the rest of them began to fragment?

"This squad is destroying itself, Garm," Volk said quietly, hesitating to admit the truth he'd known for some time, "And I don't know how to stop it."

Ordinarily, Volk would never admit such a thing, least of all to Garm. Instinct and personal pride forbade it. Volk realized even as he said it that he was coming apart just like the others, losing control of himself even as he lost control of them. Perhaps Theran was wise to get out while he could.

* * *

The Anuri squatted in the mud, peering up at the AT-TE out of dark, bulbous eyes. To call him toad-like in appearance was no insult; with the exception of spiky forked tongue and a shock of bright orange hair on his head, B'Lyt (as the Anuri called himself) resembled nothing so much as a big frog or toad. Sitting as he was, B'Lyt was about four feet high, his coloration indeterminate due to an excess of algae and mud coating his skin. He was about average in appearance, as far as Anuri went.

"I didn't expect to see any fish in a tin can around here," B'Lyt said conversationally.

Nattan was in no mood for small talk, "You told one of my men that you could help us."

"Oh, not me, not myself," B'Lyt told him, "Why, I'm nothing but a poor trader. All the poorer for not having passed through earlier, before the swarm got here," his large mouth cracked into an unpleasant grin, "Though perhaps less poor for not having been here when it arrived, yes?"

"You're wasting my time," Nattan said.

"You've got it to waste... Sergeant, is it?" B'Lyt grinned again, and settled himself more deeply into the mud, "After all, there's nowhere for you to go. You're too late to escape."

"Escape? Escape what?" Nattan demanded, his interest quickening.

"So word didn't get back in time," Nattan whirled to face the source of this new voice, and found himself facing a clone he didn't know, one who -by the looks of things- was very much alone.

"Who the Hell are you?"

"Kavan, sir. But that's not important just now," the clone replied, "What should matter to you is that I'm a trained medic. B'Lyt told me you've got injured among you."

Nattan decided now wasn't the time to ask more questions.

"In the tank," he gestured.

Kavan, in true medic fashion, did not wait for Nattan's permission to enter the tank, but simply climbed in, and brushed past the crew until he found Caden. Nattan could do little but follow Kavan, uncomfortably aware of the Anuri breathing heavily behind him.

"Can you tell me your name?" Kavan asked, kneeling beside Caden to examine him briefly.

"Caden," was annoyed, if weary, sounding response, "Can you tell me yours?"

"Caden?" Kavan repeated, "Well that's bound to get very confusing."

"The only thing I'm confused about is who you are and why you're touching me," Caden retorted, then hissed through his teeth as Kavan's expert fingers found one of his broken ribs.

"I'm Kavan, I'm a medic, and I'm trying to save your life. Sufficient?" Caden glared, but held his peace, so Kavan turned his attention to Nattan, "It's going to hurt him to move, but I can treat him better in offices of the village doctor. It looks to me as if he's already had emergency treatment. Who's responsible for that?" indirectly, he was asking for assistance.

"A member of his squad. But they're not here with us," Nattan answered, "Speaking of... where's your squad?"

"Time for that later, Sergeant," Kavan said, standing up, "Right now, speed is essential, if I'm to save his life," he glanced at Caden, "If you'll cooperate, that is."

Caden eyed him coldly, "I know what you are. I'm telling you now that I don't care, but I don't trust you either. Still, I'd rather be alive than dead, so it appears I have no real choice."

Nattan felt a vague suspicion stirring in him, but he firmly ignored it. For the moment.

* * *

"You're overworking your right hand."

Rafe jumped in surprise, not having heard Tavis come up behind him, "What?"

"Volk," Tavis nodded towards where Volk and Garm were creeping up the hill to scout around, "You're overtaxing him, and the pressure is beginning to break him."

"I haven't done anything," Rafe said, "He hasn't listened to me from the first day, and he was running this squad long before I came around."

"I don't doubt it. But he was serving as a temporary leader, calling upon resources which are not unlimited within him. Volk is not leader material, and he doesn't want the position. The more stressed he gets, the nastier his disposition is bound to be. I suggest you rein him in before he does something one of us is going to profoundly regret."

"How can you tell his over-stressed?" Rafe asked.

"How can you not? You are far more like him than I am," Tavis replied, "Look, Sergeant, I wasn't going to bring this up, but I think it's time for me to be perfectly plain."

Rafe raised an eyebrow, but said nothing to that.

"I want this squad back," Tavis said, "But not at the cost of watching it tear itself to pieces. I value this squad, and the men in it, above anything else in the whole damned galaxy. Can you make the same claim? If you cannot, then I'll fight you for it with everything I've got. But I will not see this squad destroyed by carelessness, ignorance or apathy. Am I making myself clear, Sergeant?"

"Quite clear, Tavis," Rafe replied, "And I do care about the welfare of this squad."

"Good," Tavis seemed to bite the word off, "Then prove it, and start acting like a leader. Fireteam deployment and course changes are your responsibility, so take them off that corporal immediately."

"You can't give _me_ orders, Tavis," Rafe warned, "So don't try."

"I won't, if you'll do the job _you_ were assigned," Tavis retorted icily.


	28. Kavan's Story

"That is the most suspicious person I've ever met," Kavan informed Nattan, stepping outside of the Anuri hospital building and gesturing over his shoulder as he spoke.

"You should meet the guy he answers to," it was Logan who said this.

"How is he?" Nattan asked.

"Extremely weak, physically. But you'd never know it to talk to him," Kavan replied, "He's finally resting. Barring the unexpected, I anticipate a full recovery. I am curious to know though, what the hell happened to him? My examination suggests he was crushed under something, or against something. The medic in his squad did a decent job patching him, but that work was all undone at some point."

"Is knowing relevant to your ability to treat him?" Logan inquired.

Obviously, Logan was unwilling to spread knowledge of their mistake if it wasn't important.

"Nah, I'm just curious is all. Frankly, I haven't seen injuries like that since... well, it's been awhile."

"Your guess is a good one," Nattan said, "After he was injured, Caden was left with us. When we came under attack by clankers, he pitched in to help."

"With those injuries? You're kidding," Kavan said, "I don't believe he moved on his own, much less handled a firearm. There's just no way."

"In the short time I've known him," Nattan said, "I've discovered Caden to be very... resourceful."

"Resourceful isn't the word I'd use," Logan muttered.

"Logan, go back to _Beauty,"_ Nattan said "I want you to find a place out of sight for her. And post sentries, I don't think we can trust the sensors completely."

"Sir," Logan nodded curtly and went off to carry out his orders.

"He's got quite the attitude for a tanker," Kavan observed as Logan jogged away.

"He is young, and full of himself. We all start out that way."

"Don't I know it," Kavan replied, "Anyway, I should go back, keep an eye on my patient. I just wanted to let you know that he should pull through alright."

"I appreciate that," Nattan said, "Take good care of him. He's not replaceable. Not like most of us."

Kavan cocked his head curiously, but refrained from asking. Swallowing his curiosity, he went back inside. Nattan had certain questions of his own, but he felt sure they could wait.

* * *

"I don't know. Something had Theran on edge, but we didn't see anything except shadows and trees," Volk reported to Rafe, "It's a valley, just like we suspected. It's not flooded, probably has some sort of drainage system, underground rivers or caverns, something like that anyway."

Rafe was barely listening to what Volk was saying. Now Tavis had pointed it out, the strain in the corporal's voice was unmistakable. Rafe couldn't believe he'd missed it before. That he'd been wrapped up in his own concerns, problems and uncertainties was no excuse. As a sergeant, it was his job to keep track of the well-being of an entire squad, no matter what the situation. What a bang up job he'd been doing of it so far.

Volk stood still, but there was an indefinable nervousness to his aspect, poorly concealed by his showy indifference and outright aggressive stance. Tavis was right, Volk was acting in his own self defense, trying to conceal his weakness and unconsciously unleashing anger as a result. His ability to cope was failing him, that irritated him and, in attempting to ignore the failure and keep it hidden, his irritation turned outward and spilled onto everything and everyone around him.

Rafe should have recognized it sooner. Tavis was right about this too (Was he ever wrong? Rafe wondered), Rafe and Volk were similar in ways, especially in their tendency to use aggression to hide weakness and uncertainty. Looking at Volk was like looking in a mirror, with one slight exception. Of course, Tavis knew this too. Volk wasn't built for command, and he wasn't taking well to the burden of it.

Perhaps Tavis really would make the better leader for _Fortune Actual_. He knew it so well, recognized its needs and what to do about them. Of course, Rafe reminded himself, Tavis had served with the squad longer than he had, and had led them before, under the most adverse of conditions. It was merely an unfair advantage, not uncanny insight.

"Recommendation?" Rafe asked, when Volk remained silent.

Volk actually visibly twitched in surprise. He had anticipated another in a long line of commands to do what he thought was best. It was Rafe's prerogative to delegate decisions to Volk, but it was one he'd been abusing quite badly. He realized now, perhaps too late, that he'd been going about everything the wrong way.

"Theran's not usually the imaginative type. He sensed something he didn't like," Volk said, "I'd recommend waiting, observing through the night, and making a decision in the morning."

Volk was a cautious, distrustful individual. Rafe had been thrown into the squad as an unknown, and Volk had been trying desperately to gauge his trustworthiness. But Rafe hadn't done anything. He'd sat back and observed the squad, without allowing them to learn anything about him. He had to show them his ability to lead them if they were ever to trust him. Instead, he'd made an already nervous Volk even more uneasy by forcing him to make decisions that his sergeant could disapprove of, countermand or otherwise use against him. Rafe had been given so much power over these men, and they had no idea whether or not they could trust him with it. He could destroy them all so easily, far more easily than he had even realized. They seemed so strong, so independent, so willful, it was easy to forget they were only men like himself, just as fallible, just as ultimately fragile.

It was time he gave them something they could rely on. If it wasn't too late.

"My thoughts exactly," Rafe said, "Besides, the men are tired, they need rest. There's no sense in killing ourselves before we finish the mission, is there?"

"No sir," Volk agreed, and for the first time his tone lacked the challenge he'd always aimed in Rafe's direction.

It was something, but not enough. Volk was still tense, still wary.

"Have Garm stand the first watch," Rafe said, "I'll take the second. Tavis can take the third."

"Yes sir," Volk's tone betrayed nothing, but the torrential flood of relief that seemed to radiate out from him was utterly impossible to miss. Or at least, it was now that Rafe was paying attention.

Volk was still distrustful, but at last Rafe had given him an amount of relief, taking command decisions away from him, and giving him the time to at last rest after having been on point all day.

It wasn't much, but it was a start.

Tavis might want this squad, but Rafe intended to give him a run for his money. He was only just now beginning to realize that he truly had been given the best squad the GAR had to offer. Maybe the GAR didn't realize that when they gave it to him, but he did. And he intended to fight to keep it.

* * *

"He hasn't figured it out, has he?" Caden asked of Kavan when he returned.

Normally, GAR troopers seemed much smaller, more fragile when stripped of armor and lying in a bed. But Caden had a strength in him that Kavan had encountered only once before. Kavan hadn't been lying about how suspicious Caden was, but he had failed to mention the mind that seemed to make leaps that could not be made logically, yet were nonetheless correct.

"Poor Nat," Caden shook his head, "He's such a trusting sort," his eyes darkened and he pinned Kavan with that sharply intelligent stare of his, "I'd hate for someone to betray that trust."

"I wouldn't hurt him, any more than I'd hurt you," Kavan said, realizing he sounded more defensive than was perhaps wise, "Anyway, it's not like you think."

"No?" Caden asked, tilting his head slightly, "You mean, you're not a deserter?"

Kavan hesitated, his replies stumbling over each other and rendering him speechless for a moment.

When he found his voice, he said, "Not as such, no."

"'Not as such'?" Caden repeated, raising his eyebrows, "What's that mean?"

Kavan halted, a defensive argument stilled in his throat. Caden seemed to be genuinely indifferent to the fact that Kavan was a deserter. It did not seem to anger him, nor did he seem especially perplexed by Kavan's desertion, or his decision to risk helping those who had not deserted, who would likely shoot him on sight or arrest him if only they knew. He seemed solely curious. Perhaps what Kavan had earlier taken for hostility had been a reaction to the great pain Caden had been enduring.

There was definitely a bright gleam in his eyes, a caution to his words. But Kavan saw no malice. It seemed that Caden had been honest with him earlier when he'd said he knew and didn't care, but also didn't trust Kavan. The distrust was evident, but it had no hostility attached to it.

"Nattan said you weren't like the rest of us," Kavan said, "I begin to see that."

"Good for you," Caden said dismissively, "Now you begin to understand me, why not answer the question so I can understand you? Or are you so ashamed of what you've done?"

"I have _nothing_ to be ashamed of!" Kavan practically shouted, then pulled himself together, and forced himself to speak more calmly, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"I have an Onitheran for a team mate," Caden said, as if that was supposed to mean something to Kavan, "Try me."

Kavan started to ask just what the hell an Onitheran was, but decided against it.

"I did not abandon my squad," Kavan began, "They abandoned me."

"With you so far," Caden said, and Kavan felt a rush of confusion that Caden didn't ask why they'd abandoned him, or claim GAR troopers just didn't do that kind of thing. "Go on," he urged, when Kavan hesitated uncertainly.

"We were on patrol when the Anuri Guard attacked-" Kavan got no farther in his story.

"The what?" Caden demanded, but Kavan found himself not needing to answer, as a veritable plethora of expressions chased each other across the PFC's face, finally clearing up into a look of disgusted understanding, "So _that's_ what Beanie knows."

Again, Kavan refrained to asking. He was more concerned with convincing Caden that he was on the level about not really being a deserter. He was nevertheless astonished by Caden's powers of comprehension in what he knew to be a drug-addled state. If he was like this when thoroughly drugged, Kavan could only imagine the quickness of Caden's mind when it was in the clear. No wonder Nattan was so concerned that he survive. Kavan knew he had a born tactician on his hands.

There was little more valuable in the GAR than a clone who inherently had the capacity to come on his own to understanding of complex realities, to make logical leaps too far for the average man. Caden was only a PFC, and therefore had obviously not been given the additional training of higher ranking clones. Additional training was given to make captains and the like, and they were taught to be more independent thinkers than most clone troopers. Caden appeared to have those qualities without the training. Clearly, his talents had somehow gone unnoticed. Not for much longer, if Nattan's undisguised admiration was any indication. Kavan himself was finding it a little hard to believe.

"The Anuri Guard," Kavan repeated, regaining Caden's attention, "attacked our squad in the dark. When my sergeant called a retreat, he also... he ordered one of us to stay behind and cover the others. That someone..." he faltered, "That someone was me."

Caden scowled, but not at Kavan. He glared at seemingly nothing, but Kavan had already figured him out enough to know that Caden was thinking. What Kavan had said made absolutely no sense to him. Mentally swift and capable as he was, this was a problem that Caden couldn't unknot. Not with the limited information at his disposal. Kavan waited for Caden to realize it.

"You're a medic," Caden said, almost as though he was no longer certain he'd heard right the first time.

Kavan nodded a confirmation, but said nothing.

"Who in their right mind would leave a medic to guard the rear if he had _any_ other option?" while medics had military training equal to that of any other GAR trooper, they also had an aptitude for medical knowledge that showed early on, and resulted in their receiving additional training.

Medics were supposed to be present in every squad, but a lot of squads had to go without. Nearly every squad had a declared medic, but he might not possess the training, so officially could not call himself one. Kavan was a true medic, and his armor was marked to prove it. Medics were in short enough supply, without sergeants throwing them away unnecessarily.

"I'm one of the Alzena clones," Kavan admitted, his voice hollow.

He anticipated a look of horror, then loathing to cross Caden's face. Neither expression came to surface. Caden just stared at him. He looked as baffled as Kavan had felt when Caden had referred to an 'Onitheran' (whatever the hell _that_ was).

"You have no idea what that means, do you?" Kavan said, shaking his head in wonderment, "You have to be the only clone in the GAR that doesn't."

Caden looked moderately offended at this remark.

"So tell me," he said, his tone milder than his expression.

Kavan wasn't surprised that his name hadn't rung a bell with these clones. The only name everyone knew was the ringleader of the clones who formerly served under Oliana Alzena. Everyone else was just 'those who followed him'. Following the incident, the Alzena clones had been split up, for reasons beyond Kavan's ken. His new squad sergeant had seen his record, and been looking for a chance to off him from the moment he arrived. The Anuri Guard had been a good opportunity to do that.

But if Caden didn't know Kavan by name, he should have at least known about the Alzena clones. _Everyone_ knew about them. What rock had Caden been living under then, if he did not know?

Kavan sighed in resignation, "You'll want to kill me if I tell you, just like my sergeant did."

"You saved my life, evidently at risk to your own," Caden said, "I'll be sure to keep that in mind."

Kavan knew he had no reasonable alternative. If he didn't fully explain himself to Caden, it was probable that the PFC would report him to Sgt. Nattan. And then Kavan really would be a dead man. Something told him that Caden could be reasoned with.

It had a lot to do with the look in his eyes. A look not unlike that of then Corporal Tavis when he'd convinced the Alzena clones to turn on their mistress and kill her. Some kind of conviction, an inner strength that drove him, made him different from other clones.

If Kavan had known the truth about Caden, he might have felt a lot less uneasy.


	29. Whispers in the Dark

Tavis might have been confident in his assessment of Volk's situation, but not so with his own. Ever since they'd come in sight of the hills ringing the valley, he'd felt an oppressive sense of dread about it, not unlike his general feelings towards water and everything to do with it.

The hills kept looming darker and larger, and the sky had seemed totally black when he watched Theran take off into the swamp alone, abandoning them to whatever fate had in store for them. The trouble was, he could not be sure if it was just paranoia stemming from the most recent in a string of attempts on the part of his own brothers to end his life, or if he was actually sensing something.

Despite the persistent existence of his sixth sense, Tavis was not reliable like a Jedi, and no amount of training could make him such. The ability was distinct and separate from those of the Jedi, in spite of the intent of the scientists who'd developed the concoction that had done it to him in the first place.

Though he had gradually learned to cope with the myriad thoughts and feelings that seemed to constantly bombard him, he'd also become keenly aware of the fact that they were just vague possibilities, potential truths, little more reliable than gut instinct, which was what Volk was guided by most of the time. Certainly they had done nothing at all to warn him about Onoff. Or help him with Oliana Alzena, for that matter. His sleep was never untroubled, but it was impossible to differentiate the nightmares from the precognition (if one could call it that) until it was too late to do anything about it.

He had only told Rafe part of the truth when he said he would not stand by and watch the squad destroy itself. The possibility that he could not be steady or reliable at all times had crossed his mind. It was possible he was unfit for command. If that was so, then he must do the next best thing, and that was to provide Rafe with all the information and support he needed to become an effective leader for _Fortune_.

Tavis loved _Fortune_ , and would give anything for them. And that included giving up the thing he wanted most, which was control over their future. Much as it hurt and terrified him, he was wise enough to realize that he might not be best suited to protect them. Even if he could reliably command them, the rest of the GAR would never accept him as a squad sergeant, and _Fortune_ would have to suffer for what he'd done.

If he found himself in charge of the squad and requesting backup, would it ever come in response to his summons? Probably not. He could not allow the squad to suffer for his actions. That was not the way to treat something you cared deeply for. That kind of care (some might even venture to call it love) was putting the needs of who you cared about above your own wants and needs. It was giving your all, and asking nothing -absolutely nothing- in return.

Still, the thought that he was not worthy of _Fortune_ wounded him in a way he could not accurately describe. The thought that he could cause them suffering, or fail them, was unbearable.

Maybe this was sufficient reason for his dark feelings towards the hill. Perhaps it was merely the redirection of his internal turmoil, seeing danger where there was none. But could he trust that? There was not only the success of the mission at stake, but the lives of eight men, including himself. But could he rely on this... this intuition... to tell him what he needed to know?

Though it was not his shift to stand watch, sleep was not possible. Not with these things running through his mind. No, he could not command _Fortune_. Not with fear and indecision plaguing his every waking moment, and stealing sleep from him by the hour.

He'd been right so far, but what if next time he was wrong? What if the next thought or feeling he acted on was wrong? What if he got them all killed? What if he already had, and just didn't know it yet?

"Why are you so afraid, Tavis?"

Tavis twitched, and realized on some level that -despite his thinking it was impossible- he'd somehow gone to sleep. He knew this because the man who'd spoken to him was dead, and had been for some time. And Tavis did not believe in ghosts (no one had ever told him about Force Ghosts, and he might not have believed them if they had). He'd been addressed by the dead before in dreams. Sometimes they seemed to be just dreams. Other times, like some part of his mind had figured out what his sixth sense was telling him, and decided to explain it to his consciousness in the form of someone familiar, someone he might trust and believe. It didn't make any sense, but it was the best explanation he could come up with.

"You are so trusting, Tavis. And you have so much faith in others," the dead man continued, striding to a boulder and sitting down on it, "Why don't you have any in yourself?"

Tavis rose and went to sit beside the man.

"You know why. You're proof of why."

"Am I?"

"Mother," for that was the nickname which had been given to this clone, the former Sergeant of _Fortune Actual_ , "You are dead. You aren't really here."

"I'm not?"

"You're not. Yet I see you. I hear you. And I believe you are here."

"But you just said I'm not here."

"Because you can't be," Tavis insisted, "You're dead. And dreams aren't real anyway."

"They're not?"

"You don't even sound like the Mother I knew," Tavis grumbled, "My subconscious can't even get that much right."

"If I am a construct of your subconscious, shouldn't that be based off your memories of me?"

"I don't have the energy for this," Tavis said, turning to look off at the hills, which in this dream-scape had become black mountains, topped with a swirling dark smoke.

"And yet, I am here," Mother said.

Tavis moaned, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to ignore the apparition, and the feelings that seeing Mother again evoked. Mother's death had been brutal, senseless, and Tavis had been powerless to prevent it. He hadn't had the ability to save his sergeant. It was one of many things with which he had to live.

"Look at the mountains, Tavis," in the way of dreams, Tavis found himself looking at the black mountains without having decided to do so, "What do you see?"

"I see... smoke. Jagged cliffs. No safe way over."

"Look at them, Tavis. Look hard," urged the voice of Mother, which was now wavering, fading out, "Look, and remember what you know."

"Dammit!" Tavis whirled, but the dead man was gone, evaporated as though he'd never been, "Why is it always riddles with you!? Why can't you just give me a straight answer for once!?"

He was looking at the mountains again without having turned towards them. The smoke... there was something wrong with it. Something unnatural. It wasn't... really smoke. It was something else. Something far more deadly. Something... familiar. He'd seen it before. He knew it. He knew it, but he couldn't place it. He couldn't remember in his agitated state. He couldn't...

"Tavis!" a harsh whisper jarred his view of the mountains, and they began to blur and lose their shape, "Tavis! Wake up!" someone was shaking him, and he snapped to consciousness abruptly.

"W-what?" Tavis blinked, trying to kick his brain into a functional order.

"You were beginning to shout," Rafe said, his whisper gentler now, "You'd have woken the whole squad with that racket."

"Oh," Tavis said, keeping his voice low and sitting up slowly, wincing as his bruised and weary body protested.

Rafe sat back, resting his arms on an upraised knee.

"Want to talk about it?"

"Not with you," Tavis replied, rubbing his head in the vain hope of reducing the aching in it, "What did I say?"

"Nothing coherent," Rafe said, "You sounded pretty upset. Bad dreams?"

Tavis looked at Rafe sharply, looking for signs in the dark of sarcasm or mockery. But he didn't see any in Rafe's face, nor was there evidence of such in his voice.

"I said I don't want to talk about it," Tavis reminded him.

"You did," Rafe nodded, "But, as you so recently reminded me, it's my job to look out for this squad, and the success of the mission. And, Tavis, Volk isn't the only one suffering stress. You're about as stable as an earthquake, ready to strike out or shatter completely at any second. If you don't find a way to relieve whatever that pressure inside you is, it's going to kill you. Or us."

"What do you care?" Tavis asked irritably, "You want me dead."

"No," Rafe corrected him, "I may have thought I wanted that once, but not anymore. And I think you know it. Now I understand you, and more importantly what you mean to this squad, your death is the last thing I want. But I also won't have you endangering this squad or reducing its efficiency. So unless you tell me what's eating you up inside, I'm going to have to take you out of fireteam one."

"Sergeant!" Tavis nearly shouted, but caught himself and lowered his voice just in time, "Fireteam one currently consists of myself and Phisher –- and nobody else! You take me off that fireteam and you'll leave the squad vulnerable."

"And you think it's safe for you to be stumbling in and out of dazes back there? Don't think I haven't noticed. Tavis, you may know this squad, but your ability to focus leaves something to be desired."

Tavis opened his mouth with a ready retort, but he choked it down. Rafe was right. And not only that, Rafe had unknowingly sparked off a chain reaction of thought in Tavis' mind, which caused him to look up and past the sergeant, at the hills. Somewhere in that darkness was Garm, standing guard over the squad. But that wasn't what Tavis was thinking about. He was thinking about something else, something familiar, something he knew but had forgotten... now at last he had it.

"Suicide Holes," he said, not particularly to Rafe, not really to anyone.

Rafe whirled as though he expected an enemy to be bearing down on them even now. He needed nothing further from Tavis to understand. They'd all heard about the Suicide Holes, been told about the signs to look for. Signs that, now they were looking, stood out like neon signs.

"No wonder Theran went ballistic," Rafe breathed, "He knew. He was trying to warn us."

"And we ignored him," Tavis whispered quietly.

"We need to go," Rafe realized aloud, "Now, before it's light."

"We don't know they're exclusively daytime critters," Tavis said.

"No, but we do know they're active in the daylight. Maybe they're not at night. We'll have to take that chance. I want to be well away from this spot by morning."

"The men are exhausted, you said it yourself," Tavis said, "You push them much more and they'll simply break."

"You think it's better to stay here, knowing what's just over that hill?" Rafe demanded.

"If you're asking my opinion, no, I don't. I just want to be sure you know what you're doing."

"That's right, use your head," Rafe said approvingly, "If you could just hold onto that all the time."

"If I could hold onto it all the time, you would not have become the sergeant for _Fortune Actual_."

"Well, I guess it's my good fortune that you're a flaky bitch," Rafe laughed.

"Ugh," Tavis moaned, "I could do without your kind of humor in the middle of the night."

"Come on, help me get them up," Rafe said, shoving Tavis' shoulder to urge him to his feet.

* * *

Though the source of Tavis' dream couldn't be adequately explained, Kavan didn't have any question about Caden's nightmares. Despite his assurances to Nattan, and the fact that Caden had been lucid in a conversation earlier, he became feverish in the night, and restless, tossing and muttering to himself in clear agitation. Occasionally, something in his mind would wind him up, and Kavan would find himself holding the PFC down to prevent him from hurting himself by thrashing and fighting some unseen demon. Kavan didn't try to wake him, but he did keep an eye on the fever.

B'Lyt stayed throughout the night, but didn't approach. He sat quietly and watched. After Caden's night terrors subsided for what seemed the thousandth time, B'Lyt spoke.

"Shouldn't his condition be improving?" B'Lyt inquired.

"It's this planet of yours. There's so much humidity and bacteria on this planet, even a minor wound is bound to get infected. Infection breeds fever."

"You don't have medicine to treat this... fever?" B'Lyt asked, pronouncing the last word 'fee-vorr'.

"I do," Kavan replied, "But it takes time to bring the infection under control. According to that tank sergeant, his body had probably been fending it off for the better part of twenty four hours before I ever got to him. That's a long time for an infection to spread through a host who's immune system is already overworked by internal damage as extensive as he suffered."

"If he dies? What then?" B'Lyt asked.

"Then we get out, while the getting is good," Kavan replied, "You know as well as I do that, if we go back with these guys, it's both our heads that'll be lost. And this time, there won't be anyone to save either of us. Hell, I've already used up a life time's supply of luck twice over. First Tavis, then you... I've got to be the luckiest guy in the galaxy, stumbling twice into people who'd risk their lives for me."

"I risked nothing I would not have risked otherwise," B'Lyt reminded him in his coldly reptilian way, "I do not believe in what my people are doing, and would not see them succeed."

"I understand that," Kavan said, "But that doesn't explain why you decided to save _my_ life. If you'd been found out, you'd have been executed on the spot for high treason. Don't think I don't know it."

"Both of our races stagnate, and are bound for destruction. I see no reason to hurry the process," B'Lyt said, winking one of his great goggle eyes, the Anuri version of an indifferent shrug.

"I appreciate it anyway," Kavan told him.

"Let us hope we live long enough for you to properly express it," B'Lyt replied.

What neither of them knew was that Caden's nightmare of a moment before had subsided because he had obtained a state of consciousness.

He had heard every word, and now quietly proceeded to process this new information.


	30. Temmie's Revenge

A night march wasn't something to take lightly. Inadequate sleep was the least of their problems. The fact that they could barely see, and the rain and fog messed up the night vision binoculars was more hazardous. A night march was exactly what their jagged nerves needed the least. Moreover, the Temmies were active at night. Without Theran, they would have no warning. It had been the team of Theran and Caden that had killed a Temmie, and given the clones a passing idea of what one looked like. Now they had neither Caden nor Theran to help them.

Rafe broke the standard formation by preventing Volk or Tavis from assuming the point position. Instead, he took it on himself, with fireteam one in tow. Grumbling, Volk took his team to the back of the formation. He grumbled, but did not openly argue with Rafe, which was more than Rafe could have expected or hoped for.

They moved at closer intervals than before, as in this darkness they could barely see three feet in front of them. They moved slowly, cautiously; feeling their way more than anything, carefully moving away from the hills, making a circle around them. They felt uneasy moving away from their goal, which already seemed much too far as it was. But they had no choice. Rafe had told them why, and they had all seen his reasoning. None of them argued. Only Volk even expressed any annoyance, but that was normal for him. They didn't speak as they went, attempting to be as quiet as possible. They didn't want to attract notice from anything that might be out there in the dark.

Since he could not see or hear well, Rafe soon found himself relying on a sense he didn't have a name for. He found himself sensing where his men walked in relation to him. It wasn't because of his orders that he knew. It was something he couldn't explain. He wondered if this eerie sense was how Tavis felt all the time. And Volk, who almost never checked to see where the others were, but just seemed to somehow always know, regardless of how the terrain changed.

He didn't feel he could trust this sense when it came to dangers ahead, and felt a constant unease about his surroundings, feeling as though a threat could come at any time, from any direction, and he wouldn't be able to see or hear it in time. He didn't much care for the feeling.

But none of them, not even Tavis, saw it coming.

At Rafe's insistence, Volk had taken Garm's place beside Bean. If allowed, Garm would always drift to the back of the squad, acting as its rear guard. He did this even if it was counter to standard formation, unless told to stand somewhere else. Garm was thus at the rear of the squad, Doc ahead to his left and Damyu ahead to his right. The assault came from that direction, which was why Damyu was hit first.

The others only heard Damyu cry out in alarm and warning, Garm actually saw him go down. Damyu hit the ground with a thud, seemed unable to get back to his feet and instead rolled, bringing his rifle to bear against whatever had hold of him. Blaster shots lit up the night, followed by a coughing hiss.

Garm had swung his rifle towards the darkness, but instead of firing went for Damyu's position at a dead run, recognizing the tick-tick-ticking sound Caden had described to him once. Damyu's firing was intermittent, as he was trying to break free of the hold the thing had on him more than kill it. Damyu knew what had hold of him as surely as Garm did.

On the ground, being dragged away from where he'd first fallen, Damyu twisted and grabbed hold of a root. As the Temmie's barbed grip tightened and pulled harder, it wrung a scream from Damyu. In the same instant, Garm descended upon the spidery-tendril leg which had reached out and caught Damyu.

Standing across his fallen brother, Garm fired point blank at the Temmie's grasping leg. The combination of its powerful tugging and the blaster's impact on the leg made it seem to explode. Hot blood sprayed everywhere, and -somewhere in the dark- the Temmie howled in pain.

Keeping an eye on the dark, Garm leaned down and offered his arm to help Damyu to his feet. The pull he felt against him told Garm that Damyu was injured and found standing difficult. But he didn't have time to ask, as another spider leg shot from the dark and reached around, catching him in the back just below the chest plate. Garm was yanked to the ground and spun around in the same instant, grunting with pain as the barb sliced through his armor and into his skin.

The rest of the squad had recognized the danger by now. Before they knew what the Temmie was, squads had closed around their injured. Now they knew what had attacked them, the nature of it, they knew that getting up close and personal was the only way to kill it, and that it was many feet away from where the attack was taking place. The squad slipped into a line formation, Rafe and Tavis making the point positions of it together, about thirty feet between them. The squad strung between and slightly behind them, Bean staying the farthest back. This was happening even as Garm cut Damyu free and was felled.

Because Garm had spun when he fell, the Temmie momentarily lost its firm grip on him. It had hold of him, but couldn't pull him towards itself without adjusting its grip. As it began to do so, Volk reached Garm. Rather than fire his blaster, he merely pulled his knife from its sheath and dismembered the offending limb. Damyu, his weight shifted almost entirely to one side, helped Garm to his feet.

They fell in with the squad, who fired shots into the darkness of the jungle area, to distract, disorient or otherwise discourage the Temmie from attack. The intention was more to destroy its night vision than to actually hit it. They knew its body was basically armor plated, the chances of a distance shot hitting it were slim because they couldn't see it, and even if they hit it, they were unlikely to do damage.

But this was the technique Caden had recommended after his encounter with the Temmie. He was the animal control expert at the base where _Fortune_ had been stationed. His recommendations had been echoed and edited by others since, but it was the basic knowledge of the Temmies that he had shared which now served them.

As they neared where they suspected the Temmie to be, they began to close around it in a semi-circle. It had lost the barbs off two legs, but they knew it had more. One of these shot out of the dark and went for Rafe, but it was sharply checked by Phisher, who had seen it coming. A volley of shots from his blaster severed the limb, and left its end flopping about uselessly in Rafe's path.

Cautiously, in case it had more life than reflex left, Rafe stepped over it, keeping his eyes ahead. When the legs came right at you, they were a tiny point in the dark. But, at an angle, Phisher had been able to see the length of the leg as it extended, and this had given him a target to aim for.

Now the Temmie seemed genuinely upset. A terrible crashing came from the brush, and suddenly it burst upon them, roughly two tons of insectile power and bad attitude. The ticking emanated from its clacking jaws as it charged them. There wasn't time to do anything but lunge out of the way.

As though sensing weakness, maybe able to smell the blood, it had burst upon the portion of the line made up of Damyu and Garm. The pain in his back and side slowed Garm in his dodge, and one of the broken spider legs clipped him and sent him spinning across the mud. Damyu, forced to try and go to the right, found his leg would not support him. The Temmie smashed into him and he went down, rolling desperately to avoid the big webbed feet that supported the creature's massive bulk.

Volk had evidently had it up to here with his squad being attacked, and abandoned all pretense of procedure or squad cooperation. He leaped on the thing from behind and sank a knife into its back, onto which he held, growling like some kind of wild thing as the Temmie howled in agony and tried to claw at him with what remained of its limbs.

Garm, scrambling to his feet, also went on the offensive, getting right up close to the creature, planting the muzzle of his rifle under its split lower jaw and shooting it right in the mouth. The thing spattered blood and staggered and nearly toppled directly on top of Garm, but it still managed to remain upright.

Garm, seemingly oblivious of the danger, shot it again in the face. The resulting pitching of its body in response to this knocked Volk from its back. He hit the ground hard, and lay stunned. The Temmie, rid of one of its assailants, now employed its undamaged spider leg and swiped at Garm. He ducked it once, but the second time it caught him. Only now it didn't want to eat him. It only wanted to get away. It pitched him hard, and he hit a tree trunk and collapsed to the ground.

At this point, the whole squad had closed on the creature. They required no instruction, but moved as the unit they were designed to be. Both Rafe and Bean stayed back, knowing they hadn't developed the instinct for one another that _Fortune_ had. Those among _Fortune_ simply knew when one of them was going to move in and go for a weak spot, and which weak spot. The others stayed back and covered the one moving in by shooting at the Temmie to distract it. One after another, they closed in, found a joint or other weak armor point and shot the Temmie, then darted back before it could respond. Blood flowed freely from the great behemoth, its eyes rolled and its voice shrieked out in rage and agony.

In reality, it took only minutes, but it felt like forever before the beast succumbed to its many wounds. With a dreadful groan, the Temmie stumbled, staggered forward a step, back a half dozen, and then fell lifeless. A last, dying gasp, and then it was perfectly still.

The battle was over. The clones had won their lives.

Or had they?

They were miles from anywhere, with no hope that anyone would come looking for them.

Tavis had already been limping badly before, and the battle seemed to have brought new strain to his damaged knee. Worse, Damyu's right leg had been ripped open from hip to knee, and the wound was deep. Blood flowed free and dark, and he could not put any weight on the leg at all. Garm had a deep gash cut from a point near his spine just below the ribcage around his side and down to the hip. On both Damyu and Garm, the armor had been opened like a tin can punctured by a knife, the armor pressed inward and split jaggedly. Volk attempted to conceal it, but he wheezed a little when he breathed, the result of pain from ribs that had doubtless been cracked when the Temmie had knocked him off. They were all exhausted, and it seemed to take effort forever for them to catch their collective breath. The thickly humid air left them gasping, despite their acclimation to it.

"I hate to admit it," Volk said, his voice strained with the effort of not gasping between words, "but I think this may be as far as we go."

"What?" Rafe demanded sharply.

"I phrased that wrong," Volk said, lifting his head, "I mean _Fortune_ has done all the carrying it can do for awhile. We're spent, Sarge," he glanced over his shoulder at the others, "I mean it. We're done. We're no good to anybody anymore. It's over, we're done."

Rafe could only imagine the pain it caused Volk to make that admission. Volk was a proud creature. Proud of his strength, and that of his squad. His records indicated that he would push them to their limits. And theirs indicated that they would exceed those limits at his behest. They would give their all. To admit that there was something they could not do, that there was a limit to their abilities, came hardest of all to Volk, who now had to admit for all of them that they had done their best, and it simply wasn't enough.

"Volk, we cannot stay here," Rafe said, but his voice lacked conviction and he knew it.

He looked up at the hills to the left, knowing the Suicide Hole stood just on the other side. When the sun came up, they could all be swarm chow. This place wasn't safe. But then again, there wasn't a safe place in probably a hundred miles, or maybe anywhere. There was no help for them.

Instead of responding, Volk merely sank down onto the stilt roots of a tree and sighed heavily, his face downcast, rifle held limply across his lap. He didn't even have the energy left to argue with Rafe.

"Volk is right," Doc said, finishing his examination of the injured, "Damyu won't make it another mile with that leg, and Garm'll fold not long after," he hadn't dared approach Volk, and so had nothing to say about him, but Rafe didn't need his medical opinion to see that the fierce corporal had reached his limit.

* * *

Caden's fever continued to climb, to Kavan's frustrated confusion.

"I don't understand," Kavan shook his head, "the infection shouldn't be this severe."

He turned to B'Lyt, who continued to sit in the corner. B'Lyt said nothing, but his tongue flicked out, carefully curling its spiked tips away as it ran across one of his eyes, then returned to the Anuri's mouth. Kavan wasn't sure if that was some kind of comment or not.

"He's dying," Kavan told B'Lyt, "And I can't figure out why. The infection I treated should be receding, his fever shouldn't be this high. Not for the kind of infection I found. Not in just twenty-four hours."

Kavan ran both hands through his hair (noting in some back part of his mind that it had been awhile since he'd cut it and it was definitely growing past the length accepted by regulations), and turned back to his patient, lying on the cot, sweating and murmuring nonsense to himself, his expression one of profound unrest. Something inside Caden was killing him, and Kavan found himself at a total lose as to how to explain it.

Along with his frustration at his inability to figure out what was wrong with his patient, Kavan felt a profound fear. He'd told Nattan that Caden was going to recover. But that was before he'd detected the fever. Before the uncontrolled shivering had set in. Before Caden had stopped being lucid in his verbal responses. It astonished Kavan that Caden had gone downhill so fast.

He knew the extreme illness hadn't come on suddenly. Somehow, Caden had been holding himself together, as if through willpower alone. Somehow, he'd forced his mind and body to keep going, despite the infection that ravaged him. He'd been carrying himself through on guts and determination, but the infection had become stronger. Something had taken the strength right out of his will to live.

A low hiss came from the doorway into the next room, snapping Kavan out of his thoughts. With a croak of alarm, B'Lyt leaped back away from the door and towards Kavan.

In the doorway stood a creature almost the size of a man. Black, reptilian eyes peered out of a wolfish countenance, a beak with serrated edges clicked sharply, and powerful front limbs ending in sharp claws flexed. The jaws parted, and from the creature issued not a snarl, but words.

"Cade," it growled, and stepped into the room, eyes glittering with animal hatred, "Hurt. Cade."


	31. Communication

Rafe felt a moment of absolute helplessness. If he could have carried them all, he'd have done it. Didn't they get that? They could _not_ stay here. To stay would be a death sentence. He felt fear twisting through him, fear for these men, and what would become of them. Then a hard clamp of icy determination caught the fear and held it still. He set his jaw, swallowing down the guilt at what he had to do.

"Is this the _Fortune Actual_ everyone is so impressed with?" he spat, forcing disdain to lace his words, "A bunch of whiners, who quit just when the going gets a little rough!?"

They stared at him, but formed no reaction. He knew he had to press them harder. Ordinarily, Garm would have become quietly defensive, Volk would have erupted in fury, the others would have followed their example, and Tavis would have spoken up for them. But now they all just sat or stood where they were, staring with a hollow kind of disbelief.

"Volk, where has your spirit gone, if you ever had any to begin with!?" he whirled, "Garm, what has become of the guardian you're said to be, if you just stand there and give up on your own!?" Rafe then turned towards Phisher, pushing the most dangerous button he knew, "And _you_... you blue-eyed bastard, what kind of soldier do you think you are? Killing your friend, letting his manipulator go free... giving up before the job is complete. Onoff died in vain, and that's _your_ fault!"

It worked. Phisher snapped into life, and went on the offensive. With a cry of uncharacteristic anger, he slammed his shoulder into Rafe's midsection, driving them both to the ground. Rafe's helmet was knocked off as he hit the ground, so when Phisher threw the first punch, it really landed. Rafe felt his brain swishing around in his skull, a bright white flash exploded behind his eyes when Phisher hit him a second time. He blocked the third strike and glared his challenge at Phisher, who suddenly seemed unsure of himself.

" _There's_ the squad I was promised," Rafe said, turning his head to spit blood out of his mouth.

Phisher, seeming confused, backed off him.

"You... you did that on purpose," Phisher whispered, "You wanted me to hit you."

"Well, I had to get your attention somehow," Rafe replied, sitting up and fumbling around in the mud until he found his helmet, "And reason didn't seem to be getting through."

"What does that prove?" Volk asked wearily.

"It proves at least one of you has the spirit to continue fighting," Rafe told him, "You're wrong, Volk. This squad is _not_ done. We're not finished. We can still do this. We can _still_ survive, but only if we're willing to _fight_."

Now when they looked at them, Rafe sensed he actually had their attention.

"Nobody ever told us this mission would be easy," Rafe continued, beginning to pace back and forth in front of them; ignoring his own weariness, "Nobody said we could quit whenever we liked. Well, gentlemen -and Volk-, we are not quitting. We're going to finish what we started. Do you understand me?" there was silence, so he repeated the question louder, "I said do you understand?!"

The clones started to look at one another uncertainly.

"Don't ask each other!" Rafe shouted, "Tell _me!_ DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

It was Tavis who spoke at last, for all of them.

"Roger that. What would you have us do?"

"Survive," Rafe said, "I'm told that's what _Fortune_ does."

* * *

Theran had slipped in unnoticed by the tank crew outside. He had lived his whole live among clones, and knew their habits. He knew where they would post their sentries, and took steps to evade them. He knew these clones from before, but recognized only Caden as his friend. He trusted no one else. Scent, and the uncanny parent-chick bond of Onitherans drew him unerringly to Caden from miles and miles away, in a virtually straight line almost as soon as he'd left _Fortune_.

He'd detected the two strangers when he'd entered. He was suspicious of them, but more interested in getting to Caden. The scent of sickness was sharp, nauseating, but Theran was drawn to it, because he knew it meant that Caden needed him, needed to be protected, to be cared for. Theran didn't know how get rid of the scent of infection, but he did want to offer his presence as comfort to his sick family.

He slowly circled towards Caden, snarling and eying the strangers with wariness. His overt hostility was solely to gain their respect, his words were to convey his intent and reason for being here. He had no interest in fighting here and now if he didn't have to. He only wanted to get to Caden.

"It's after Caden," the strange clone told the toad, "We can't let it."

Theran did not process the words, but in their tone he read what Kavan did not say. Kavan had mistaken him for a scavenger, attracted to the smell of death. Kavan felt threatened. And Kavan intended to attack. This last was what most concerned Theran.

Kavan had left his rifle leaning against the wall near the door. B'Lyt stepped forward, between Theran and Kavan, his tongue flashing out towards the Onitheran. Theran did not know that the spiked ends of the Anuri's tongue were poisonous. But he knew a threat when he saw one. He ducked the attack and charged, a high-pitched roar exploding out from him as he leaped for the Anuri.

The Anuri flattened against the floor, croaking in alarm at the swiftness of Theran's attack. Theran's back claws hit the wall behind the Anuri, dug in for an instant as his legs coiled for a second spring. He tackled Kavan from behind, knocking the clone to the ground effortlessly, just as he'd been taught.

Fury surged through Theran, and he had no aversion to killing these creatures. Morality did not forbid it, and he had no personal attachment to them. His instinct was to be territorial, to be a killer. His training was also that of a killer. Anything he attacked (except in play), he killed.

"Theran, no!" the voice cut through the predatory haze of Theran's mind, even as his long neck extended, and his jaws parted to snap the neck of his prey.

The jaws clicked shut. Kavan felt the razor edges of the beak slide over his skin. The beast made a huffing sound, hot breath blew out against Kavan's neck. And then the weight pitched off his back. He rolled over quickly, and saw that Theran had retreated across the room to Caden's bedside.

Theran's roar had cut through Caden's delirium for a moment, and it had been Caden who spoke, his voice barely a whisper. Theran now crawled delicately up onto the edge of Caden's bed and eased himself into a lying down position beside the clone. His put his head on Caden's chest, glaring across the room at Kavan and B'Lyt. When they didn't make any further threatening moves, Theran shifted his head up towards Caden's shoulder and buried his muzzle in the clone's neck. He then began to coo in a tone which was unmistakably one of deep affection.

"Good, Theran," Caden said vaguely, already slipping back out of consciousness, "Good boy."

Theran squeaked as though pained when Caden's consciousness left him. The creature lifted its body slightly and twisted its neck around, running its muzzle back and forth along the clone's body. Kavan approached, stopping when Theran glanced at him and hissed.

"What are you doing?" Kavan asked, not sure if he expected an answer.

He could tell Theran was not like the Anuri. Theran was definitely an animal, but with some limited speech ability. Theran ignored Kavan for the moment, continuing his weird inspection of Caden. Then, his searching halted. His jaws clicked together and he growled softly, his muzzle hovering over Caden's thigh. His eyes turned towards Kavan, and he glared at him.

"Cade," Theran hissed in a guttural voice, "Cade. Hurt," he shook his head, "Bad."

"I know," Kavan said in a placating tone, holding his hands up non-threateningly, "I know Caden is hurt. I'm a medic. I'm trying to treat him. But you're getting in the way."

Theran hissed, his head snapping up, jaws working angrily.

"Hurt. Bad!" Theran snarled, dipping his head back towards the area he'd focused in on, then his glittering eyes returned to Kavan, "You. _Fix_."

"That's what I'm trying to do," Kavan said reasonably.

"Fix!" Theran screeched, his voice rising in pitch until the walls seemed to vibrate, "Hurt. Bad! Fix!"

Kavan swallowed his fear, took a deep breath, and stepped closer to Theran.

"Kavan, that thing will tear you apart," B'Lyt croaked fearfully.

"No, I don't think it will," Kavan whispered back, keeping his eyes on the Onitheran and hands carefully in full view, "I don't think it came to hurt us... or Caden. I think... I think it wants to protect him. I think it understands that I'm trying to help him. At least... I hope it does."

Theran watched his approach with eagle sharp eyes. The jaws clicked as Kavan came alongside him, and Theran hissed, ducking his head once more towards the spot on Caden's body which had so upset him. Kavan, trembling at how close his hands were to the deadly jaws of Theran, examined the area.

At last, he understood where the fever was coming from.

"This is an old wound. Couple of weeks, I'd say," Kavan said, more to himself than B'Lyt or Theran, "Not bad, and looks like it was taken care of. Somewhere along the line, it was reopened. This is where the worst of the infection is. This is why the antibiotic I gave him wasn't enough."

"Fix?" Theran inquired.

Kavan looked the creature in the face, and saw a deep, deep sorrow and fear in the creature's reptilian gaze. A vulnerability that he hadn't noticed before. Theran seemed to be experiencing pain in response to Caden's suffering, and fear at the potential loss of the clone's life. His gaze was imploring, pleading with Kavan to save Caden's life. But he'd asked a question, a far cry from his earlier demand.

"Yes, I think I can," Kavan replied, "Now I know what's wrong with him."

Theran repeated his earlier cooing sound. Before Kavan could react, the Onitheran had reached out to him with its muzzle and nuzzled against the side of his neck. Then Theran withdrew his head and chirped, averting Kavan's eyes and seeming slightly embarrassed.

"I should have seen it earlier," Kavan admitted, mostly to himself, "I should have examined him more completely. But I saw the way he'd been injured, and it just didn't occur to me to check for other types of injury. I just didn't even think about it," he shook his head, "I could have gotten him killed, if it wasn't for..." he trailed off, looking at the beast which had curled itself up against Caden's side and placed its head on his chest, "... whatever the hell this thing is."

Theran opened one eye and glared, then shut it and blew loudly through his nose.

"You must be losing your touch, Kavan," B'Lyt laughed, deeply amused now that the danger appeared to have passed, "If a mere animal can do your job better than you."

Kavan eyed the armor adorning the body of the Onitheran, "I don't think this is a 'mere animal', B'Lyt. I think this creature is somehow... very special," he shook himself, turned his attention to B'Lyt, "Come on, we need to flush this wound, get it cleaned out, and give him another shot of antibiotics. If he responds in the next hour or two, we should be alright."

"You are medic," B'Lyt grunted, "I am observer."

"Now you're my assistant," Kavan told him.

* * *

Rafe took time to think by tasking Doc with patching together the wounded as best he could. Volk was among them, and that left Rafe only Tavis to confer with. Tavis, who evidently could not always be relied upon for anything, yet appeared to have the squad's best interests at heart.

"Should I bother asking what your problem back there was?" Rafe asked, when they'd moved slightly away from the others.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You were the slowest to react, and when the squad nearly gave up on itself, you did nothing."

"My interference was unnecessary. You are the squad sergeant, you acted as such," Tavis said, neatly evading the question, "It was not my place to do so."

"You mean, if I hadn't figured out how to get Phisher fighting mad, you'd have done it yourself?" Rafe was skeptical.

"My technique would have been different, but the intent would have been the same. To provide the squad with incentive to snap out of their stupor and keep them focused on survival," Tavis answered.

"Alright, so explain to me why you were the last to react to the Temmie. You, who seem to have an uncanny sixth sense when it comes to danger."

"I have nothing of the kind," Tavis snapped, "Nothing... like you're thinking of, anyway."

"Oh, and what am I thinking of?"

"The only logical thing," Tavis said, "You're thinking of the Jedi, and their powers. Those powers are not mine. I couldn't use them if I had them, because I wouldn't even begin to understand them. What I have..." he hesitated, and Rafe sensed a fear in him unlike any he'd displayed before.

Of all the things Tavis had shown, fear was not one of those things. Not like this.

"What have you got to lose?" Rafe pressed, "Nearly every clone in the GAR wants you dead already. There's nothing you could say that could possibly make them hate you more."

"What I have," Tavis said, seeming to be resolving an internal conflict, "is accidental exposure to a cheap attempt to recreate the power of the Jedi artificially. It does not work well, often it does not work at all. When it does, I'm never sure of it. I can't be sure of anything I experience with my own senses," when Rafe made no response, Tavis finally explained specifically why he'd failed to react, "Sergeant, when one sees as many... ghosts... as I do, one becomes uncertain if what one sees is... really there at all. Can you imagine what would happen to me if I overtly reacted to a thing which did not exist?"

"Do you realize what could happen to this squad if you don't react to something that does?" Rafe returned.

"I know, Sergeant," Tavis said bleakly, "Believe me, I know."


	32. All for This

Despite Rafe's efforts to bring the squad back from the edge of despair, he could do nothing to repair the physical damage which had been inflicted on them. And Doc, at least, had not been speaking out of depression earlier when he made his statement about Damyu's condition.

Removing the ripped armor so he could get a better look at the injury, Doc found that the Temmie's claw had cut right to bone in one place. It was all he could do to stifle the bleeding, and he found himself enlisting the help of both Volk and Bean. He needed both of them because he actually had two patients trying to bleed out, and he couldn't help both at the same time.

In Garm's case, the initial penetration had been deep, but the way he'd been spun meant the claw lost its hold on him. Though the wound in his back was a nasty one, Doc didn't believe any harm had come to vital organs, and that would be the biggest concern. Still, Garm was bleeding in what seemed like an excessive manner.

In the back of Doc's mind hummed the concern that Rafe would ask them to do the impossible, to keep moving. He wasn't even sure he could get the two men stabilized as it was, if they started marching again they'd just rip the wounds wide open and start bleeding again. And that was if he could even get enough value out of the meager GAR med-kits to get them to stop in the first place.

 _What I wouldn't give to be an actual medic,_ Doc thought for perhaps the millionth time in his life.

Doc hadn't been trained as a medic, everything he knew he'd picked up in the field. At almost no time had he been able to actually implement the special training he _did_ have, which was as a mechanic. The closest he'd gotten to that lately was designing and building the armor for Theran, and that was a far cry from repairing a larty's engine or the oscillator in a speeder (the latter wasn't strictly mechanical, but at least _that_ was covered under his training; plugging leaks in soldiers was not). The whole chain of events that had led him to his present state would have been funny if it hadn't been so damned serious.

He knew the squad had more problems than that even. After Rafe had set him off, Phisher had gone away to sulk somewhere. Doc knew why Rafe had done it, but he wasn't convinced it had been right. Phisher wasn't like the rest of them, not trained from birth to take death as a matter of course. Phisher was sensitive, with an aversion to violence and a need to understand _why_ that made his decision to remain with the squad seem like an act of utter insanity. If any of them had ever understood Phisher, it had been Onoff. Onoff... whose one failing was being too much of what the GAR made him.

"I dunno, Volk," Doc admitted with a shake of his head while he worked on Damyu's leg, "I'm beginning to think this whole damn squad is coming apart. Like we're all bleeding out and just don't know it yet."

He glanced sidelong at Volk. But Volk did not acknowledge him, pretending to put his entire focus on staying Damyu's reflexive responses to the pain he was experiencing, holding him still for Doc. Other than the initial cry of pain the Temmie had elicited, Damyu had managed to bite his tongue and be quiet about it. Damyu was among the most openly expressive clones Doc knew, but the rookie was eager to take after Volk, and had picked up on the stoicism of the more experienced clone.

But Volk wasn't being stoic now. If he had been, Doc's remark would have brought forth a tide of anger. Volk should have vehemently denied what Doc said, and told him that it was the kind of thing only cowards thought of. Right now, Doc would have given just about as much to have Volk yell at him as he would give to be a real, honest-to-goodness medic.

Volk's silence was the surest indication that this mission was killing them, not just one at a time, but as a whole. It didn't seem fair to survive Onithera, only to die on Morassis. It didn't make sense that they could make it through one Hell, just to be ended in another. Hell. It didn't even make sense that they'd escaped one Hell and been thrust into another one. If this was what it meant to be a soldier in the Grand Army of the Republic... Doc knew it was treacherous, but he was no longer so sure he wanted to be that. There wasn't any reason for this to be happening, except that the GAR deemed it so.

"What the hell are we even doing out here, Volk? Tell me you know, because I sure don't," Doc begged.

Volk, whose armor was stained with the blood of Damyu, Garm and the Temmie, said nothing. But Bean, who'd been quietly holding Garm in an upright position, did.

"It's for our brothers. To save their lives," he shifted uncomfortably when Doc stared at him.

Doc had removed his helmet so he could see better, and Bean had followed his example, though Volk had ignored them both. Now Doc saw in Bean's eyes a quiet conviction, a certainty which the rest of them lacked. His knowledge, the intel he carried, meant the world to him. Whatever it was he knew, it evidently made all of this worth it somehow. Evidently, Bean saw in Doc's eyes that he needed to know too, if he was to keep going. A shadow crossed Bean's face, knowing he wasn't allowed to reveal what he knew to anyone not authorized. But he was going to anyway.

Since before he even met them, Bean had been willing to do anything for this squad. For _Fortune Actual_ , he would risk any punishment, any consequence. He accepted the reality of his devotion to the squad, without understanding why it could overrule a careful genetic design followed by a lifetime of training. Before meeting _Fortune_ , Bean had always done as he was told. His life had been simple, with a clear list of rules and regulations he was content to follow. But, he had realized after meeting them, it had also been hollow, without meaning. With _Fortune_ , he had purpose, even if he didn't understand it.

"Two weeks ago, I participated in a rescue of a platoon that reported being pinned down. Pinned down," he shook his head, "they'd been pursued into exhaustion. Radio signals in the area had been jammed, and they had only barely managed to get through to me because I was flying over. I relayed the distress signal and responded, just like you're supposed to."

Bean paused, looking up. Doc glanced up from his medical work to register that Tavis and Rafe had finished whatever conference they'd been having, and Phisher had returned from wherever he'd stalked off to. He wondered if it would stop Bean. It didn't. He went on, unafraid of them.

"We didn't even see the first shot coming at us. It wasn't clankers. Hell, it wasn't even the Seppies."

Volk, who was half-turned away, twitched his head slightly, the first sign of life in awhile. Other than that, nobody gave a visible reaction. Doc was focused on his work, only half-listening now.

"We thought that hit was a mistake, but one of the guys on the ground radioed that it wasn't so. It was the Anuri. They've turned on us, joined the Separatists. They're intercepting messages, and blocking transmissions they don't approve of."

"So what's the big secret then?" Doc asked, "Why not spread the word through the ranks?"

"After that battle," Bean seemed to be continuing his story, but was actually answering the question, "I retrieved what remained of the ground units and carried them to the nearest base. In less than twenty-four hours, they were all dead. Murdered, by someone who had access to them at the base. The lieutenant I initially reported to was also killed, but not before he got word up the chain of command. The problem being that Generals Skywalker and Kenobi are in the field, along with Commander Cody and Captain Rex. Nobody else has the authority to order an evacuation of the ground troops."

"That doesn't explain the secret. Not everybody can be a spy," Phisher observed.

"No, but they damned sure weren't going to let us play telephone until word got to the Jedi. The only reason I'm still alive is, whoever the traitors are, they didn't know who the pilot that retrieved the ground troopers was."

"They found out though, didn't they?" Tavis asked, "That's why you were shot down, your crew killed."

"I was shot down," Bean said patiently, "by accident. If those troopers had been spies, they'd have tried a helluva lot harder to gun me down."

"But the speeder after you sure wanted you bad enough."

"I didn't say word didn't get out, just that my larty was initially crippled by friendly fire. As to why this information has been kept classified, it's as much to protect me as anyone assigned to escort. Or so I was told. Chances are, it's just typical left-right ignorance; somebody made an arbitrary decision without really knowing how things are down here. I had my orders, and followed them."

"Why would the Anuri turn on us? They're the ones who called for help to begin with," Phisher wondered aloud, "What changed? And why now?"

"Maybe it was a lie all along," Rafe suggested, "Bring us here to waste our time and expend resources, maybe get a crack at killing some Jedi while they're at it."

"They went to a lot of effort for only two Jedi," Phisher pointed out, "And, if it was a ruse, why would the Seppies deploy so many troops to the planet? It doesn't do them any good to spread us thin if they're doing the same thing. The best thing to do would be bring ships in, blast ours out of orbit, leave us stranded. But they haven't done that. No, they're waging war. They want this planet for their own."

"So what did they offer the Anuri? What could the Anuri want so badly that they'd be willing to be ruled by Separatists?" Tavis asked.

"It's not our job to find out," Volk spoke for the first time in what seemed like hours, surprising them all into silence, "Our job is to make sure Beanie lives long enough to get this information to someone who can actually do something with it and, hopefully, prevent more lives from being lost uselessly."

"Actually," Bean corrected him, "I'm expendable now. All of you know exactly what I do, and therefore any of you can carry the message. I should have realized it earlier."

"You were following your orders," Rafe told him.

"Maybe, but they stopped making sense the minute I joined up with you lot."

"There was no proof none of us was a spy," Rafe said, "Still isn't."

"Forgive me, Rafe," Bean sounded almost sarcastic, but not quite, "But this is _Fortune Actual_. If I can't trust them, then there's no point in my even trying anymore," he averted his eyes for a long moment, then looked back at Rafe, "You're one of them now. You should know."

There was a moment of silence, and then Rafe changed the subject.

"Alright, we have two men completely unable to travel, and a message that has to get through. That means one thing. We're going to have to split up," he paused, but nobody argued, nobody even gasped in shock at the idea of further diminishing their numbers, "I guess you all knew there wasn't another alternative."

"We knew it," Damyu said through his teeth, his jaw clenched against the pain, "Didn't we, Garm?"

"Yeah," Garm answered in a rough voice, "We knew. It's alright, Sarge, we get it."

"I'm not abandoning you," Rafe spoke sharply, "Those of us that go on to complete the mission are going to come back. Volk mentioned caverns in the hills. Before we go, we'll find you one to hole up in. Hopefully, the swarms won't go into the caves."

There was silence to that. They all knew it was a thin guess. They all knew that the possibility that anyone left behind would very likely not live to see another sunset.

"You'll be safe enough from the Temmies, if we find the right cave. And I'm not leaving you two alone," he hesitated the barest instant, "Doc, you and Volk."

To this, there was protest. Damyu and Garm argued that they didn't need Doc to stay with them, Bean, Phisher and Doc protested leaving the ranks so thin.

"Sarge, you leave Volk and I behind with Damyu and Garm, that leaves you with only Phisher and Tavis, plus Bean," Doc didn't have to remind anyone that Bean was a pilot, and Phisher could never be equal to the clones in proficiency, no matter how hard he tried, or that Tavis was still limping badly from his fight with Onoff.

"I know that, Doc. I can count," Rafe retorted, "But, in case you've forgotten, the worst thing to have here on Morassis is an open wound. I'm sure you've gotten same reminders as everybody else, not to leave any open wound, no matter how small, untended. The risk of infection is too high to ignore. I cannot leave these men without a medic who knows the signs and can do something about them."

"I'm not a medic!" Doc practically shouting, "I'm a bloody mechanic!"

"You're the best we have!" Rafe snapped right back, matching his tone in intensity, before leveling his voice once more, "You're all we have."

"What about Volk?" Bean asked, and it was clear in his tone he wasn't especially thrilled by the prospect of dealing with Rafe without Volk to stand up to him should it become necessary.

"Listen to him wheezing, Corporal," Rafe said, waiting a moment before going on, "You think he can make the trek we have to go on?"

"I can," Volk said, but his voice was unusually subdued, and nobody had missed the fact that he hadn't voiced a protest along with the others.

"You think you'll be any use to us?" Rafe inquired, and Volk's silence was answer in itself, "Besides," Rafe said, "Volk's the best fighter among us. Garm and Damyu won't be able to fight if the need arises. Volk, you're responsible for seeing to it that no further harm comes to them while I'm gone."

"Roger that," Volk nodded curtly.

"With all due respect, sir," Tavis said quietly, "I think we both know I'm nothing but a liability to you. I've served in a medical capacity before. I could stay and then Doc would be able to-"

"You'll do nothing of the kind!" Rafe snarled at him, then nodded towards the wounded, " _They_ need Doc," he looked sternly at Tavis, but his tone softened, " _I_ need you."

So few words could convey so much. There was no further argument after that.

What he didn't mention was that the three men who would be undertaking this final leg of the journey with him each potentially had their own intense personal reasons for wanting to see him dead.


	33. The Hand of Fate

The night hadn't been easy for Kavan, or for Caden either. But there was a decided turning point, where the fever held instead of rising, and then began to slowly creep down. It eventually fell enough that Kavan felt secure in not monitoring Caden so intensely. He'd actually dozed off at some point, falling asleep sitting on the floor with his back against a wall.

A soft gurgling, chirping noise woke him. At first, he feared it came from his patient, and his eyes snapped in the direction of the bed. He then realized the sounds came from Theran, who still lay pressed against Caden's side, his head across the clone's chest. That head was now rolled slightly to the side, and Caden was absently stroking the creature's neck with one hand.

Kavan wasn't familiar with the creature, but Theran appeared to be enjoying the attention. His leathery wings were slightly spread and lifted, and wavered in the air. Caden was looking at Theran, but didn't seem to really be seeing the animal; his thoughts were obviously elsewhere. He seemed completely unaware of Kavan's presence.

Kavan decided to remain quiet, and not disturb the apparent tranquility of the scene. Clones didn't get much opportunity for peace, fleeting moments here and there where they weren't being shot at, when nobody was trying to kill them, or prepare them to kill or be killed.

But when Caden spoke, it was obvious he was experiencing pain, but not in the physical sense. It sounded almost like regret... or perhaps guilt.

"All of them?" he asked in a soft voice, "They're gone?"

"Bad cloud," Theran said, and then resumed the chirping.

Kavan belatedly realized that the chirping was meant to be comforting, the spread wings protective or reassuring. The creature wasn't seeking comfort, it was offering the same.

"I wish you could explain what happened," Caden sighed, "But it's no good wishing for what we can't have, is it?" his voice cracked, and he fell silent, "I never should have let them go."

Kavan wanted to voice an objection, to remind Caden that he'd been very near death, and in no position to prevent anyone from doing anything. But he said nothing, realizing he couldn't be sure whether Caden was talking about recent events or something in the past.

"If I'd just been more careful... I should have..." he closed his eyes, "This shouldn't have happened."

"Fortune," Theran said, apparently at random.

Caden opened his eyes, "You're right. If we're all that's left, then we have to finish what they started."

Theran made a tragic sounding honk noise, and buried his muzzle between Caden's neck and shoulder. He lowered his wings, draping one across Caden and letting the other hang off the side of the bed.

"Hey... none of that, lad," Caden whispered gently to the creature, "There's nothing to be afraid of. It's just the hand fate's dealt us, that's all. There's no point in being afraid of fate."

Theran withdrew his head, looking Caden in the eyes.

"If we're the last of our kind, so be it. There's nothing for either of us to be afraid of in that."

Theran blew through his nose, evidently in acceptance.

"There's a good lad," he stroked the creature's long neck.

"You can't seriously be planning to undertake a mission that killed an entire squad on your own," Kavan said, unable to remain silent any longer, "You'll just get yourself killed."

Caden turned his head slightly, seeming to look right through Kavan.

"My squad never abandoned me. If my life is forfeit for that loyalty, so be it."

"But... what are you even planning to do?" Kavan asked.

"My squad had information to deliver to General Skywalker. I now know what that intel was. If they died before reaching their objective, I cannot allow the information to die with them."

"What information? Just what are you on about?"

"You should know. You provided it," Caden replied.

Kavan just stared at him, so he took a breath and elaborated.

"The Anuri Guard. The Anuri have sided with the Separatists. Skywalker needs to know. For whatever reason, the information had to be hand delivered. Theran was with the squad. That he's here now suggests to me that they've been killed. He's not been clear about it, but that's what I understand."

"You're going to trek across... miles of enemy occupied territory, alone -and half dead, I might add-, to deliver a message which may or may not have gotten through already?"

"Not alone. I'll have Theran with me," Caden replied.

"You'll be dead before the day is out," Kavan protested, his voice rising, "I just got you patched back together, but you're a helluva long way from being healthy!"

"If my squad is gone, then I have no reason to exist other than to finish what they started," Caden said.

"Have you forgotten the fact that you're a soldier of the GAR?" Kavan's raised voice had drawn B'Lyt into the room, and he squatted silently in the door, looking from one to the other, "Last I checked, we're not allowed to be suicidal!"

"We are also," Caden said pointedly, "not allowed to be deserters."

"Hey! I didn't desert! I was left behind to die. It just so happened that B'Lyt, drafted into the Anuri military, didn't believe in what they were doing and faked my death, then went into hiding with me. _I_ had no choice!"

"And the GAR abandoned me!" Caden shouted, then winced painfully, "They left me to die on some deserted planet nobody cares about! But that wasn't enough. They had to send soldiers in ships. They sent them to kill us. I'm only alive now because one of those guys was bright enough to realize the orders didn't make a damn bit of sense and held his fire. That man may be dead now. I owe it to him, and the squad that didn't abandon me, to make sure this message gets through."

"Why not let your tanker friends handle it?"

"How far do you expect that tank to get before it sinks? Ten feet? And they won't leave it," Caden turned his attention to Theran, "Help me."

The creature immediately curled itself closer to him and supported him in sitting up.

"Now," he glared at Kavan, "Tell me where you left my armor, or I'll go looking for it myself."

Kavan exchanged a look with B'Lyt, who merely croaked.

"We're..." Kavan realized his voice was shaking badly, so he steadied it, "We're going with you."

"You? Either one of you could be imprisoned or, worse, shot on sight."

"And every move you make could undo the repair work I did, and kill you," Kavan returned.

Caden shook his head, "I have a reason to do this that's worth dying for. Do you?"

"Two people in my life have offered their lives in place of mine," Kavan answered, "I think it's high time I did the same."

"And you?" Caden looked at B'Lyt.

"My people have betrayed yours, for a promise the Separatists provably have not kept. They promised us a cure for the swarms, that they had the power to keep them away. This village is proof enough that is not the case. If my people will not admit the error of their ways, the least I can do is try to atone for what they have done, if only in this smallest of ways."

"Fair enough," Caden said.

By the time Nattan came in to check on how Caden was doing, the four were already long gone.

 _My God, Caden,_ Nattan thought, _what the hell are you doing now?_

* * *

"You know he tried to kill Beanie once," Doc said.

Well away from the cave entrance, it was dark. Garm lay on his side on the sandy floor. Volk was sitting nearby, his back against the stone wall. Doc was a few feet away, keeping a worried eye on Damyu, using his helmet lamp to examine the wound for signs of infection. None of them commented on the fact that the thin light beam was slowly fading out.

"I know," Volk replied to Doc tiredly, leaning his head back against the wall as if holding it up was simply more effort than he was capable of expending just now.

"And Tavis."

"I know."

"And that Phisher's mad as hell at him for what he did to Off."

"I _know_ ," Volk growled, irritation showing through the weariness.

"They're going to kill him," Doc said, "They are all... going to kill him."

"Maybe," Volk said, his voice sinking back into exhaustion too deep to allow for emotion.

"Maybe, nothing," Doc said, "He's a dead man, and they're all too blasted honest to keep it a secret. Those three'll kill him, admit it, and get themselves executed. Volk, I don't understand how you could let them go."

"Rafe is my sergeant," Volk answered flatly, "It is my duty to obey him."

"It is your duty," Doc snapped, "to keep this squad in good working order," he gestured expansively, "Does _this_ look like good working order to you?"

"Leave me alone," Volk pleaded.

Doc was taken aback. In all his life, Volk had probably never once begged for anything. He demanded, he threatened, he fumed... but he didn't beg. Doc didn't give it up though, not even then.

"Would that I could, but we're stuck with each other," Doc said, "Volk, it's not like you to evade questions. Punch people in the mouth for asking them, sure. But you're avoiding me."

"I'm not avoiding anything," Volk growled, a dim glimmer of his old self surfacing for a moment, before sinking back into the abyss from whence it had come, "I'm just... too tired to fight right now."

"You? Too tired to fight? Well paint me blue and call me a Mammoth Slug, I never thought I'd live to see this day," Doc said, "You're too tired to fight. I suppose next the GAR will start working for the Separatists. Too tired to fight. What does that even mean to you? If you're too tired to fight, you must be too tired to even go on living."

"Doc," Garm's voice barked fiercely in the dark, "Enough. Just let him alone."

"You hush," Doc snapped, "You're supposed to be resting."

"And you're supposed to have respect for a superior officer," Garm growled right back, "We're supposed to support each other, not tear one another down."

"Like you'd know anything about it," Doc spat, "I heard you with Lady and Damyu. You did nothing but insult Damyu and tear him down."

"That may be so," Garm said, "But I am not the same as you."

That statement stopped them all cold. They'd known... they'd known all along. But none of them had quite dared to say it out loud. Even though they all knew it, they were afraid to admit what they all had understood ever since Onithera. Not only weren't they like other clones, they weren't even all the same as each other. They were different, some of them polar opposites. For a bunch of men born and bred to be identical, nothing could be more terrifyingly confusing.

"Our differences," Volk said finally, letting those two words hang in the air for a lengthy moment before he dared add anything to them, "may just be the thing that is going to kill us all."

They fell silent. Different as they might be, they were all thinking the same thing now. It was Onoff's difference from both them and other clones that had led to his death.

Try as they might, the clones of _Fortune Actual_ had never been able to conceal their differences, any more than Bean could hide the fact that he was an inch shy of regulation height. They could not hide what made them unique, and they could do nothing at all to change it. Fate had made them as they were, and even the supposedly all-powerful GAR had been unable to alter them from what they were. Onithera may have made them more obviously different, but it had not actually changed what they were on the inside. There was nothing they could do to make themselves like other clones.

They were square pegs trying desperately to fit into round holes. It couldn't be done, they simply could not do it, no matter how hard they tried; and the harder they tried, the more it seemed to damage them. They were no more like other clones than Phisher or even Theran were like them, and there wasn't a damn thing they could do about it.

Fate had created them. And fate had brought them to this place. And now it seemed as though fate intended to destroy them. What was the point in thinking beings that never had a choice? What was the point in thinking or trying to make decisions when your fate was set in stone already?

"I never realized it before," Doc said, laughing humorlessly.

"What?" Volk inquired.

"Even you, Volk... even you are not immune to fear."

"No," Volk agreed, his voice soft, "I'm not."

* * *

The sun didn't so much rise as slowly turn the sky from black to gray, calling up a mist to replace fog, and doing nothing at all to affect the intermittently sprinkling rain. Outwardly, there was no change in the land or sky. The clones moved much as they had at the beginning of the journey, purposeful, deliberate, cautious. But one of them limped, lagging behind the others. The one on point stopped frequently, looking back at the others as though suspecting any of them could disappear into the mist at any second, simply ceasing to be. Their armor, stained with mud and algae from the start, now had gained a new reddish black tint, the color of dried blood, spilled blood, the blood of their kind.

Here, in this new dawn, there were but four of the original eleven, plus tank and crew that had begun the journey together. Four clones were all that remained, and a hundred miles of increasingly unknown terrain and potential danger lay between them and their goal.

They were alone, wounded and weary, without any help in sight, with the odds against them. They had made promises to many people, promises which they might be unable to keep, despite doing everything in their meager power. Perhaps failure had been their future from the start.

Perhaps that had always been what fate intended for their kind.

Perhaps they were always meant to die.


	34. Belonging

Looking back to check that his nonstandard excuse for a fireteam was following, Rafe knew that they had every reason to want him dead, that each harbored a personal animosity towards him. Even Tavis could not have completely put out of mind the fact that Rafe had tried to have him murdered. Bizarre and unlike any other clone as he'd become, he could not be so different that he could forgive and forget that totally. Certainly Bean had not forgotten what Rafe had done to him so long ago. And Phisher... Phisher was not a creature designed to accept circumstances, to give whatever those in power demanded. He was a man of independence and will, and as such could not possibly accept what Rafe had forced him to do without any resentment. He'd shown as much earlier, when Rafe had provoked him.

Yes, Rafe knew. But he did not fear them.

His whole life, Rafe had been a creature of violence. As Bean had accused him, Rafe turned this impulse upon others without reason, coming up with an excuse later as to why he'd done something. He was not like Volk, who was ruled by instinct. Rafe had a far darker center, a heated anger that never died, and which had no direction. But that burning inside had cooled, his restless beast stilled at last.

His anger was born of a senseless existence, a mission of violence whose meaning he had never understood, and whose purpose made no sense to him. Because he could not escape it without also losing his life, his frustration had turned on itself, and swirled into a vortex of eternal anger, whose fury never subsided, which he could control but never eradicate.

It was in the moment that Volk had bent his head, accepting Rafe's leadership despite the inexcusable mistake he'd made in letting his anger loose on someone who did not deserve it, that he had finally understood something. His frustration wasn't just that he didn't understand why he had been brought into existence only to die for a cause which did not serve his kind; it was because he was alone.

So isolated in his being, because no one thought as he did. Or maybe they just didn't admit it. Perhaps, like him, they were too afraid to admit they felt any differently than how they'd been told to feel.

He had showed _Fortune Actual_ , in the worst way possible, that he was impossibly different from them, that he did not think or feel as they did, that there was a monster inside of him that was incompatible with their way of being. Quietly, Volk had accepted him. That meant something, though Rafe had not yet absorbed what.

At the end of the line, Tavis stumbled. He tried to recover, but his right leg simply seemed to fold up under him and he tipped too awkwardly to recover his balance, and dropped to a kneeling position. Rafe waited patiently while Tavis' strength of will wrestled with his physical weakness, observed in silence as the injured clone pulled himself back to his feet and continued marching.

Then he turned his attention back to the path ahead. He was not unsympathetic to Tavis, but Rafe knew that pushing him was the only way to help him. Tavis had an internal struggle going on, and it was preventing him from utilizing whatever strength he'd had before that had saved the squad from destruction on Onithera. Whatever he'd been then, he was not that person now.

And that person, Rafe now understood, was what _Fortune Actual_ needed more than anything. When he'd said he needed Tavis, Rafe had meant it. But not Tavis as he was now. Tavis as he had once been. Tavis evidently couldn't believe in himself enough to pull himself together, so Rafe was going to do it for him. As sergeant of _Fortune Actual_ , that was his job. Rafe could not be the squad's master without Tavis' support. That much he'd learned.

Trying to kill Tavis had nearly destroyed the squad, and it would take all they both had to even try to repair the damage Rafe had caused. But the Tavis of the here and now hadn't the strength to face that fight, even though he had the desire. Tavis cared about _Fortune_ more than anything, Rafe saw that now. But even that wasn't enough to pull him from whatever dark hole he was sinking into.

Tavis continued to exist, but he could barely be considered alive most of the time.

As if they understood, neither Bean nor Phisher interfered. When Rafe stopped, they maintained their positions relative to him and Tavis, and waited. They'd been quick to jump to Tavis' defense before, but now they did not try to help him. Instead, they pretended not to see his weakness.

That was their kindness to him, though it couldn't have been easy on Phisher.

It was the nature or training of clones to be deeply embarrassed about their physical weaknesses. Being hurt was something to be ashamed of. The feeling of humiliation at being wounded was worse than any pain an injury could cause. To save their brother that shame, clones would pretend not to be aware of a wounded member unless they were a medic. Even when they assisted another clone who couldn't walk on their own, often they would behave as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world to be doing, and that it really had nothing to do with the fact that one of them was wounded. Medics were often coarse in their language towards the wounded, behaving almost as if they were offended at being asked to do their jobs. It was a way of pretending like injuries weren't a big deal to them, in effect lessening the humiliation of the injured.

But Phisher was not a clone, and Rafe had seen how non-clones responded to wounds in others. They tended to rush to the aid of the injured, crowding around them and showering them with concern. It had to be difficult for him to just stand by and watch Tavis struggle, but he did it.

What kind of man could give up all that he had, just for the chance of being part of something which was doomed? Every clone knew, somewhere in the back of their minds, that there was no place in this world for them. If and when they won this war, there would be no peace for them. There was nowhere for them to go, no other life they knew how to lead. To win the war was to ensure their own end. Because the end of the war, if not the Republic itself, would kill them.

Phisher knew how to put pieces of information together. He had to know that this squad, and all those like it, would eventually cease to be. By then, he would have nothing to go back to, and would probably die with them. Yet he made that sacrifice willingly. Not just for Onoff, but for all of _Fortune_. He would fight with them, and die with them. He would never be among his own kind again, not really. He had to know that. Yet he chose this. He, who was not a clone, and therefore not bound by the laws of the GAR, not bound by design or training. He had made a choice. This choice. The choice to never again belong anywhere... except with _Fortune_.

What was it about _Fortune_ that drew men to it, even unto risking death?

Rafe didn't know. And yet, he had felt that pull, heard that call, and obeyed. Like Phisher, and even Bean, Rafe belonged to _Fortune_ , now and forever. That moment of acceptance from Volk had changed everything, and Rafe knew an instant of internal peace he had not thought possible. _Fortune_ would accept him. From now until his death, Rafe belonged to them.

Therefore, he had nothing to fear from the three men following him.

He only hoped that Tavis could find that same peace, and let go of whatever he feared so much.

* * *

Caden held onto Theran's back for balance at first, but eventually for support as well. Theran was a creature whose nature was to be alone, to attack any of his kind which invaded his territory. He was a predator, whose every instinct bade him attack the weak, the sick, the injured. But, like all creatures capable of even a minimum of thought, Theran could make a choice. His choice was to help one who had been his friend, his ally, his father. Who had taught him to survive, when nature itself had taken his mother from him before he hatched, ensuring his death had not this man chosen to save him.

And so, Theran crouched somewhat awkwardly, leaned towards Caden and offered all the support his powerful body had to offer. He chirped encouragement every few strides. He swung his head from one side to the other crisply, sharp senses looking out for danger.

The two of them ignored B'Lyt and Kavan, as if they weren't even there. In fact, Caden seemed to at times lose sight of what he was doing entirely. Kavan knew the pain had to be excruciating, but he didn't dare intervene. He had seen in Caden's gaze a determination that he couldn't stand up to, a phantom of someone he'd once known that couldn't be denied.

Whenever Caden started to waver, Theran would chirp at him, sometimes even nip at his armor and tug on him a little. Caden would pause to clear his head and then start forward again.

"He's not going to make it far," B'Lyt whispered to Kavan, flicking his tongue meaningfully in the air, "If you could taste his weakness as I can, you would know."

"And if you could see what I do," Kavan returned, his voice equally quiet, "You'd know there's nothing either of us can do to stop him."

"Why are we following him, if we know he will fail?" B'Lyt asked.

"Nobody said you had to come."

"You would follow him, even if I did not," B'Lyt replied sensibly, "As you are my only hope for leaving this planet alive, it is in my interest to go with you."

"I'm a thin hope at best, and you know it," Kavan said, "The only way either of us survive is if I can not only find someone who doesn't want to shoot me on sight, but also convince them that you -of all Anuri- are not siding with Separatists and want asylum."

"I was a trader," B'Lyt said, "Forced into an army I did not believe in, taken from my livelihood by a government I did not ask for. I then deserted that army to protect a soldier of the Republic. There is no reason for my request to be denied. I have no ties here, no loyalty to these people."

"You could be a spy," Kavan replied.

"But I am not," B'Lyt croaked, evidently not taking offense.

"What evidence is there to support that claim? Sparing my life? I'm considered a traitor by my kind."

"And you think the answer lies in him?" B'Lyt nodded towards Caden.

"I don't know. Even before that creature arrived, there was something about him. Something... familiar. I don't know," he shook his head miserably, all too aware of their hopeless situation if he was wrong.

They thought they were being quiet, and that Caden was too absorbed to notice what they said. But Caden, as always, was listening. Processing. Thinking. Drawing conclusions.

* * *

In the cave, Damyu had at last drifted into a restless sleep. Pain kept causing him to twitch and moan in his sleep. Garm was more peaceful once he was asleep, but getting there had been difficult for him. Doc had told him he needed rest more than anything else, but Garm's instinct was to turn towards the cave entrance and guard against possible dangers. But exhaustion had finally won out.

Only then did Doc dare to approach Volk as a patient. The reluctance to disturb his sleeping brothers would keep him quiet, and the fact that they were no longer awake to see him in pain would stop his pride from getting in the way. Volk was more than a little opposed to admitting he was hurt.

"Look here, you," Doc finally hissed in frustration, "I may not have a real medic's title, but it's my job to see to the health of the squad and that overrides any protests of yours. Now quit fighting me."

Grudgingly, Volk at last submitted to a full examination.

"Couple broken ribs, and that bruise on your back can't be too pleasant, but you'll live," Doc pronounced, futilely trying to brush the grime off his gloves.

Volk glared at him wordlessly, saying without speaking that he didn't need a medic to tell him that.

"Hey," Doc said quietly, "If I'm not allowed to do my real job, at least allow me the dignity of doing my fake one. Otherwise, there's no point in my being here at all."

Volk again said everything without speaking, tilting his head slightly, his normally hard expression softening just that fractional bit. He really must be hurting to let that happen. Doc almost considered reexamining Volk to make sure he hadn't missed anything, but decided it would be too much of a hassle.

Doc sighed and sat back, and the two of them redirected their attention to the cave entrance, the light of which was just barely visible to them.

"I dunno," he said, "Maybe there's no point in any of us being here."

Volk did not deny that, did not say anything at all. Doc glanced at him, but Volk was staring ahead, at the faint light that brought slight color to the dark cave, acting like he'd heard nothing.

"Do you still believe in the GAR, Volk?" Doc inquired, "Because I haven't since Onithera. I keep trying to recapture that faith... that feeling of loyalty. But it's gone, and now I haven't got anything to hold onto," he sighed again, "I feel like I'm drowning. And it terrifies me."

"Then learn to swim," Volk said quietly, "Keep your head above water -even if you can't see the land- and swim."

Doc looked at Volk out of the corner of his eye. But before he could think of a response, the corporal suddenly tensed, a hand falling to touch the rifle at his side. For a moment, Doc was confused.

"What?" he asked, but Volk simply put a finger to his lips, gesturing for quiet.

Then Doc heard it. It took him a moment to recognize the thrumming noise as the sound of millions of wings, the whining buzz the sound of insects whirling around one another as they left the ground. As the two clones watched in silence, a shadow fell across the entrance, and the cavern was plunged into inky blackness. Outside, the hungry swarm rose from their sleep, and began to search for prey.

* * *

"Rafe, stop!" Phisher evidently could not take it anymore.

Rafe did as asked, and looked back along the line. Bean was right behind him, followed by Phisher. Tavis, still at the back of the line, had fallen down again. He sat there, his hands out in front of him on the ground, appearing disinclined to move. Rafe waited for a beat, which Phisher seemed to take as a sign that he intended to do nothing. So Phisher went back and knelt beside Tavis.

Annoyed at Phisher's interference, but also tired of suppressing any concern he felt for Tavis, Rafe sighed and slid back down the hill he'd just climbed up. Tavis was at the base of the hill, sitting in the mud, seemingly unaware of Phisher's presence beside him.

He moaned, shifting his weight to his left hand so he could tuck his right arm across his chest. Now Rafe really was worried. Doc had said nothing about a chest injury to Tavis, and Rafe couldn't think when he might have acquired it. Phisher backed off to let Rafe handle it, but remained nearby.

"Tavis," Rafe spoke the name softly at first, then repeated it more firmly, shaking Tavis by the shoulders, "Tavis!"

Tavis just made a gagging noise, twisted free of Rafe's grip and nearly tipped over onto his side before regaining his balance. He choked miserably and continued to press his arm against his chest, indicating severe pain.

"Tavis, come on. Snap out of it," Rafe took hold of him again, one hand on Tavis' shoulder, the other on his right forearm, "You're not hurt, Tavis. You're alright. Do you hear me? You're alright."

Rafe was only guessing. He could only assume that what he'd been told by Doc was correct. But he also had a feeling, an awareness he couldn't put words to, that told him Tavis was not in the present in his head, that whatever he felt now wasn't _really_ happening to him. He remembered the first time he'd noticed Tavis respond as though in pain for no apparent reason. It had been during a conversation, and he'd made a sound like he was in pain. He'd said nothing about it and nobody had paid much attention, but Rafe had filed it away for future reference. It hadn't meant anything then, but it did now.

"Tavis, come back. Settle down and talk to me," Tavis again tried to break free, but this time Rafe wasn't willing to let go, and he shook the PFC hard, "Talk to me, Tavis. Report."

Tavis whimpered, a sound not befitting a clone, and then started to speak, "They're dead. God, they're all going to die, Rafe."

"Who? Who's going to die?" Rafe demanded, unconsciously shaking Tavis again.

"It's going to kill them. It's going to kill all of them," Tavis repeated.

"What is? What is it, Tavis?" Rafe practically shouted.

Tavis began to tremble, stopped himself, and looked Rafe in the eye.

"The swarm."


	35. Bad Cloud

Theran hissed, halting in his tracks and forcing Caden to stop with him.

"Talk to me, Theran," Caden said quietly, but Theran just hissed again, jerking his head up, then side to side, tail swaying slightly behind him, clawed forelimbs grasping at nothing in particular.

"What's the matter?" Kavan asked, after closing the gap between them.

Theran growled, and shifted slightly, sufficient indication to Caden that he should let go of Theran. Reluctantly, unsure of his balance, Caden let go of him. Caden moved slowly towards the stilt roots of a nearby tree, not for support, but cover. Kavan, his question unanswered, followed his example.

Kavan looked back at B'Lyt, who had flattened himself into the mud until he almost disappeared. Shifting his limbs beneath him, the Anuri dug himself a hole to squelch in, until only his eyes were visible on the surface. This was his way of taking cover.

Kavan touched Caden's shoulder, silently repeating his question, but the PFC took absolutely no notice of him at all, instead keeping one eye on the Theran, the other scanning the trees branches overhead, seeking what it was that had the Onitheran so on edge.

Theran had not taken cover, but stood in the open, hissing and lashing his tail. He clacked his beak irritably, peering through the shadows of the Morassin swamp and half-spreading his wings aggressively. Slowly, he stretched his wings back, and began to issue a continuous rattling noise in his throat.

"You're trusting that creature's judgment?" Kavan asked, when nothing showed itself to be threatening.

"I trust his more than mine," Caden replied.

Suddenly, Theran snapped his jaws loudly, folded his wings and sprinted to where the two clones crouched. He leaned hard against Caden's back, pressing him against the roots of the tree, chirping very quietly in his ear.

"Clankers," Caden whispered to Kavan, "Stay still, and maybe they won't see us."

Kavan opened his mouth to say something, but Theran must have heard him, because the creature flapped one of his wings, smacking the back of Kavan's head hard enough to bounce him off the root curving right in front of him. Instinctively, he waved his arm to knock away the wing, but Theran had already withdrawn it and he hit only air.

"Shh!" Caden insisted, and Theran echoed that with another hiss.

Caden felt the seconds tick by in each beat of his heart. He knew Kavan was nervous, impatient, and lacked confidence in Theran. Kavan shifted uncomfortably, and looked across at where B'Lyt had virtually disappeared beneath the mud. One of B'Lyt's great goggling eyes blinked, coating its lid in mud as it did so, but he didn't move otherwise. Theran pressed against Caden so hard he felt like the air was being crushed out of him, he could hear the softly hissing breath of the creature near his ear.

Seconds crept into minutes, and the tension began to become painful. Kavan shifted more and more, until Theran smacked him again. He was still after that. Clones knew how to remain motionless for long periods of time, but Kavan didn't believe there was need for it; and Caden hadn't the authority to order him. But he wasn't about to doubt Theran, or let Kavan's doubt endanger them all.

Finally, distantly, they heard the sound which had given the droids their nickname. They were noisy in their movements, and their buzzing speech was irritating. Caden felt a surge of loathing for them, and everything that resembled them, but he sat on it firmly. All clones hated droids, but they had to temper that with the good sense not to get killed needlessly because of the way they felt.

The droids marched closer, and Caden felt Kavan tense beside him. He grabbed onto the medic's arm to stay him. He felt it too, but this was no time for them to lose their heads, literally or figuratively.

"Hey, what's that?" one of the droids had heard the faint rustle of movement when Caden grabbed Kavan, "Who goes there? Stop!"

Caden froze, and Kavan did the same. The droid hadn't identified them, or it would have opened fire at once. It didn't know what its motion sensors had picked up. It was, in effect, guessing. It stepped closer to them, scanning the area. Its visual scanner was tied in with its aiming mechanism, and the end of its blaster moved as its attention drifted from one section of the virtual grid its vision center constructed to the next. A second droid joined it in scanning, and Caden closed his eyes briefly.

They were facing a platoon of droids if they were spotted. Two clones, an Anuri and an Onitheran stood no chance against such numbers, even at the best of times. That one of the clones was a miserably armed medic/deserter and the other couldn't even get to a standing position without aid didn't make the odds any better. With two droids scanning, surely one of them had to find something.

A thunderous chorus of buzzing wings reached Caden's ears and he looked up instinctively. The sky had turned black in one spot, and that spot appeared to be coming closer.

Caden dragged his eyes away from the spot, and the droids, without moving his head. Just past the two droids, he saw what he was looking for. When the morning's light sprinkling hit the ground there, a splash resulted. Not just any splash. The sort of splash that conveys a depth of water being disturbed, rather than just a surface inch. A puddle, pond, lake, Caden didn't care what. He just hoped that the bugs hated water as much as Tavis did.

He squeezed Kavan's arm, trying to indicate without moving more than a fraction of an inch exactly what was about to happen. He couldn't really move, or else the droids would have a fix on him. The algae and mud coating their armor was providing their only camouflage, breaking up their shapes with the aid of the roots they were kneeling behind, but any move on the part of either of them would draw the deadly attention of the droids. Caden couldn't tell if Kavan understood or not.

The sound of the swarm's approach did not at first distract the droids. The mosquito-like insects that flew thick in the air at all times had been accepted by their programming as normal. They hadn't realized the swarm was a different kind of insect, one that was attracted to both them, and the power supplies in their blasters. Caden had not seen the results of the swarm that had taken out the droids that attacked the tank before, but he knew well enough. Those droids had been drained, left without power.

He had seen the empty Anuri village, the result of an attack by the swarm.

He closed his eyes, breathed, and waited.

"Hey, what's that?" the thrumming had gotten too loud for the droids to ignore it.

The two looking almost directly at the clones turned towards the source of inquiry. The droids conferred with one another about the noise, determined its direction, and collectively swung towards it. The swarm descended at that moment, and Caden shoved Kavan hard, urging him to break cover.

Kavan resisted, confused by Caden's sudden urgency, and Caden shoved him again. B'Lyt was faster in his response. He knew the swarm for what it was, and understood the importance of finding a body of water. Kavan caught sight of B'Lyt plunging, apparently headlong towards the droids, and he at last moved. Theran lunged past them all and stood at the water's edge, honking loudly.

B'Lyt splashed into the water, submerging almost instantly. Kavan hesitated at the water line, but Theran clamped his jaws around the clone's wrist and yanked him off balance, letting him go and slapping him across the back with his head, efficiently pitching Kavan into the water. Kavan didn't go down until B'Lyt dragged him under.

But Caden, couldn't move quickly, and attempting to do so brought forth a spasm of pain which grounded him. The insects were deafening in his ears, as was the futile blasting sound of the droids shooting at the swarm as it came among them and slipped in between the cracks. Caden heard the swarm envelope him, but he was blinded by the pain in his chest and could do nothing as they crawled into his armor and began to bite him.

But Theran was not similarly paralyzed. Springing to where Caden had collapsed, Theran emitted a high shrieking snarl, as though challenging the swarm. Theran bit into Caden's shoulder. He didn't have an exact estimate on how much pressure was needed to hold onto Caden in order to drag him, and there wasn't time to be polite. The armor creaked under his jaws, and Theran braced his four feet to back towards the water.

He had the strength to drag Caden, but his size relative to the clone meant it was a tremendous effort. Caden was almost no use at all, helpless in his pain. Theran tugged at the clone, even as the insects turned on him as well, biting him, blinding him and choking him with their sheer number. He struggled against the choking mass of insects, fighting for each step towards the safety of the water, trying to drag Caden with him.

Theran was willing to do it, but would he be able? He didn't know. He also didn't think about that. The future didn't mean much to him, only now, right this instant. And, at this instant, he knew he was being bitten to death by a million angry bugs. And so was his family. He had to get Caden out.

Caden managed to get control of himself, and abruptly began to thrash about, trying to find his footing. Theran hung on, acting as his guide. And then they hit the water. Theran didn't wait for Caden to find his center here, but held onto the clone's shoulder and dragged him under.

Almost immediately, Caden began to sense himself suffocating.

Instinct bade him struggle for the surface, but Theran wouldn't let him go. It was a choice between the swarm and drowning, and Theran seemed to be making it for him. The powerful jaws remained firmly clamped onto his shoulder, and he couldn't twist free.

Through the veil of murky water, Caden saw a bright flash and then his world faded out.

* * *

Volk twitched slightly at sight of the swarm. It so far hadn't shown interest in their cave, but that didn't appear to make him feel any more at peace with their existence. The only thing standing between the clones and those bugs was shadows, and that didn't seem anything like enough.

Volk knew from firsthand experience that their blasters were no defense against this threat. If the idea that they didn't like the dark proved to be incorrect... Volk growled quietly to himself. The soft noise only made Doc feel more tense, though it was nice to hear Volk sounding like himself again.

In the dark, watching the swarm, Volk _was_ becoming himself again. Here was a reality he could understand. Here around him was the fireteam he had been assigned to, trained to protect and guide. Here was an enemy whose motivations made sense to him.

Other than his initial growl, Volk made no sound, yet the sleeping team members awoke as though summoned from dreams to serve at his side. Volk said nothing to them, did not acknowledge them, but his tension touched each of them. It didn't make them afraid, because this was Volk as they knew him, Volk as he had not been since Rafe had been assigned as their sergeant.

They had no chance against the swarm if it found them. And they also had nowhere to go. But it was not in Volk's nature to give in. It was in his nature to fight. He cared not what form death took to come for him, he was prepared to face it and fight. He faced the swarm with open hostility, but not fear. That black cloud outside was not something he feared. His confidence rallied the others to him.

The swarm tightened in its spiral. And then it began to drift towards them.

While Damyu was physically unable to move, Garm was capable of it. He got up and went to where Volk knelt, watching the swarm outside. Without a word, he touched his leader's shoulder with one hand, and held an object towards him with the other. Volk looked at it as though it were strange to him for a long moment. Then he took it, and nudged Garm with his shoulder.

Volk looked to Doc, holding up the flash-bang Garm had given him, and they exchanged a nod. The two of them moved closer to the entrance, towards the mass, which moved more like a single entity than a million separate creatures. At a point Volk determined with a gesture, Doc stopped. Farther back, Garm had moved silently to where Damyu lay, the last line of defense against the indefensible.

They didn't have to say anything to realize that this closed in area was no place for a flash-bang. It was entirely possible that the cave could amplify the effects of the sound. They weren't worried about collapse, the cave was sturdy enough. But it was too easy to be permanently deafened by the sound.

Flash-bangs weren't in common use because they could so easily render clones permanently blind or deaf if they weren't careful. They had to be that powerful in order to overload the auditory and visual systems of droids. To use one in a confined space was a huge risk. They'd each been taught as cadets to never, _ever_ do what they were about to do. But, like so many times before, they had no real choice.

It was either take this risk, or die.

Volk had already met his maker, and therefore felt he had nothing to look forward to in death. As the swarm moved into the cave, he pulled the pin and threw the grenade, scrambling back and counting off in his head. He dropped to the ground facing away from the grenade and covered his ears the instant before detonation.

The cavern burst into eye searing brilliance, the blackness flooding instantly with color, which then washed out into blue-white light. All four clones felt their ears pop, and were more aware of the absence of sound than the noise which had caused it. They lay where they'd dropped, blinded and deafened, as the swarm spun wildly into the cave.

* * *

Tavis was holding onto Rafe now, as though clinging onto a fragment of reality. His breath came short and rapid, and he trembled. But his voice was steady when he spoke.

"Rafe, we have to stop here."

"What? Why?" Rafe asked.

"Because... because this is a killing field. Rafe..." he gazed at Rafe in desperation, his voice tortured, "Please."


	36. Killing Field

"I don't like this, Anakin," Obi-Wan Kenobi remarked, "There's something not right about this."

"Yeah, the fact that the outpost we just left behind was reduced completely to rubble was a good clue," Anakin Skywalker replied hotly.

"Not that," Obi-Wan replied, "We expected that."

A few days ago, they'd lost all contact with the clones in this quadrant. It was one thing for a platoon in the field to temporarily lose touch, or even one base or outpost. But for every posting to go abruptly silent virtually all at once, without so much as calling in that they were being attacked... Anakin knew as well as Obi-Wan that it had to mean they were all dead. It was the only reason for clones to go so totally out of touch. They were as attached to reporting in as they were to fighting droids, often risking life and limb just to call in on time. It was a dangerous habit of theirs, but one they all had. Radio silence was unlike them. If they didn't call in a status on time, then they were probably dead.

Obi-Wan and Anakin had come to investigate. They couldn't leave Ahsoka and Commander Cody on their own at the front lines for long, but both Jedi had a bad feeling about the silence, especially as the Separatists seemed to have found a new supply of troops to set upon the GAR forces stationed on Morassis. They were forcing a slow retreat, in this direction. It couldn't be coincidence.

So far, Obi-Wan, Anakin and the few soldiers they'd brought with them had come across a platoon in the field that had been completely cut to pieces by blasters and a bladed weapon of some type that they were not familiar with, followed by an Anuri village that was completely empty but felt overwhelmingly of death, and the outpost Anakin mentioned, which had quite literally been burned to the ground.

"It's not just droids," Anakin conceded, "And it's suspicious that all these people were attacked at once, even though they were in different places."

"The Anuri village troubles me," Obi-Wan, "It was not attacked like the rest."

Captain Rex, following them with two platoons deployed in his wake, decided to offer his opinion.

"To take out so many men all at once, you'd have to know the exact locations where they could be found, and what the security at each outpost was like," he said.

He didn't feel the need to elaborate. Even the thought of it sickened him. Anakin finished the thought aloud for him, perhaps picking up on the disgust Rex had unsuccessfully tried to keep out of his tone.

"A spy in the ranks would have that information," Anakin said.

"Even so, droids couldn't do this much damage. There's no way so many could get into the area undetected by us," Obi-Wan was thinking aloud now.

"Unless they had a garrison here already when we arrived," Anakin speculated.

"Without the Anuri knowing anything about it? I doubt it," Obi-Wan shook his head.

They might have continued the debate, but abruptly they both missed a step. They recovered quickly, but they didn't have to remark on what they'd sensed for Rex to respond. With a gesture to the nearest trooper, he warned the men to be more alert, and to tighten their ranks. Both Jedi had sensed some manner of trouble in their near future, some danger they couldn't presently put name to.

"You sense that?" Anakin inquired of Obi-Wan.

"Something doesn't feel right," Obi-Wan agreed, "Something-"

He didn't get to finish the sentence, as the ground beside him suddenly erupted. From beneath the mud, there rose a large metal form. The combat droids had lain dormant, waiting to be alerted. Now they popped up all over the place, even among the clone ranks, surrounding them and splitting them up.

Obi-Wan threw back the droid which had popped up near him on instinct, without even fully registering what it was first. Anakin engaged his lightsaber and plunged it into a droid which had erupted from the ground facing away from him before it could get turned around.

A shout went up from the clones when they found themselves ambushed, then they settled to business as each realized he was not the only one under attack, and that the droids were in fact loose among them. The chaos was momentary, but devastating, as the clones regrouped and moved to get out of each other's line of fire. The disruption of droids springing up like daisies among them crippled their efficiency, and left them vulnerable to a second wave attack.

Cut off from his men by an insurmountable number of droids, Rex found himself backing towards the Jedi, and trusting that the men could maintain order without his direct influence. He didn't see the thing which attacked him until after it had grabbed onto him.

Something latched onto his left arm and yanked it sideways, throwing off his aim. That same thing spiked through his armor and cut into him. Not missing a beat, Rex rotated and blasted the thing with his free hand, hitting it right in the face and blowing it back.

The Anuri Guard's barbed tongue ripped out of his flesh, and Rex hissed in pain. He shook it off quickly, found his left hand still had hold of its blaster and resumed his firing. He now knew what had happened to the clones, but he didn't have time to process it consciously, and shouting it did no good, as nobody was close enough to hear him over the din of blaster fire.

Anakin, occupied with several droids, didn't sense the Anuri behind him in time. Its long tongue shot out and wrapped around his neck, the barbed end sticking into his shoulder. Anakin's hands went to his throat immediately, but he couldn't pull the muscular appendage from around his throat. It yanked him backward. He may have been able to recover sufficiently to defend himself, but he never had to.

He observed in some disbelief as a shot came from a hill he was turned to face. It came from the direction they were headed, yet it was definitely a shot from a clone's sniper rifle. The shot passed harmlessly over Anakin and slammed into the Anuri's skull. The falling body, its barb still stuck in Anakin, yanked the Jedi down with it. In a matter of a second, he'd torn free of it and regained his feet.

He snatched his lightsaber from the ground and charged into the fray. He closed in to Obi-Wan's position and shouted above the racket.

"We're under attack by Anuri too, not just droids! Keep an eye out for them!"

They were both uncomfortably aware that they were trapped in the open, and that the clones they had with them were being cut down like they were nothing. The enemy numbers were too many, their ambush too well set up, and the clones were unprepared for the attack methods of the Anuri.

"Those hills would make for better cover," Anakin indicated with a nod of his head.

"How are we supposed to get there?" Obi-Wan demanded.

"There's a sniper somewhere up there. I don't imagine he's alone."

Anakin didn't have to elaborate. Those clones would provide covering fire for a retreat, picking off droids and Anuri that might attempt to follow the Jedi and their clone troops. Without that covering fire, the distance would be too great for them to have any hope of traversing.

"Rex!" Anakin shouted, "Rex!"

He tried to see through the blaster fire, the churning mud and the swirl of bodies charging, being flung back, falling, and rising out of the swamp. Droids were still being triggered to pop up, and they sent cascades of muddy water splashing in all directions. There was no way Rex had heard him, and Anakin couldn't see him.

Anakin fended off a few attacks, but mostly trusted Obi-Wan to keep the droids and Anuri at bay, while he continued to shout for the captain. In seconds that felt like hours, Rex's voice responded.

"Here, General!" his voice was barely audible, "I can't get to you."

Anakin swore under his breath, and started to cut his way through the droids to Rex. It seemed to take eternity, but he knew it could only have been seconds. Rex had found cover behind a large boulder, but he was pinned in the position, which was being hammered to bits by the concentrated efforts of a half dozen droids. Anakin slid into the small hiding spot beside him.

"Those hills," Anakin pointed.

Rex looked in that direction, cocked his head curiously, but Anakin had already broken cover and engaged the droids that had been pinning Rex down. Rex sighed. Things functioning as per normal then, with Anakin giving vague instructions that Rex had to intuit the meaning of. Not only that, but he had to somehow divine a method of conveying it to the rest of the men, whom he couldn't currently reach. He looked over the top of the boulder quickly, saw that Anakin had the droids occupied.

A shot zinged over his head and he ducked on instinct, then looked for the source. Droids and Anuri were in spots behind him, but most were interested only in ganging up on Obi-Wan and none appeared to have shot at Rex. As though trying to explain the mystery to him, another shot fired off.

It was a clone weapon, and it had its source in the hills Anakin had indicated.

Rex turned again, visually tracking the line of fire. The sniper took another shot, and Rex settled. Without having directly communicated with the sniper, Rex gathered the man's intent. The sniper would help to clear a path for Rex to reach the soldiers he'd been cut off from, allowing him to regroup them and give them their marching orders. With the faith of one who is accustomed to putting his life in the hands of others, Rex left his meager source of shelter and headed out into the fray.

* * *

"Shit," Tavis hissed under his breath.

Rafe took that to mean that Tavis had missed whatever he'd been aiming for, but he ignored the sniper for the moment. Tavis seemed to have utterly recovered from his earlier fit, and was now functioning as intended. Which meant it was time now for Rafe to do the same.

"Bean, Phisher, with me," he ordered, "Tavis, maintain position."

"Shit," Tavis said again, evidently choosing to ignore Rafe entirely.

Rafe had trusted Tavis when he said they had to stop, even though Tavis was unable to articulate why in a coherent manner. They'd climbed to the top of the hill and then stopped there. Rafe was uncertain what they were waiting for, but he knew whatever it was would appear in the flat spread of land ahead of them. He couldn't have been more astonished to see Jedi appear. The same Jedi who should have been countless miles away.

He'd been about to order the men to go and meet the Jedi when Tavis grabbed his arm and stayed him. Fifteen seconds later, the trap was sprung, and the Jedi were under attack.

Now in an arrowhead formation, with Rafe at the tip, the three clones descended the hill unnoticed by the combatants below. At Rafe' signal, Bean went for the cover of a rock formation just beyond the base of the hill. Rafe deployed Phisher to copse of trees at the right. He took a central position, using the unevenness of the ground as his own cover. They were now close enough to shoot at the enemy.

At Rafe's signal, the three of them joined the battle and opened fire on the nearest targets. The Jedi and clones cleared the path of retreat, while Rafe, Phisher and Bean shot down any who tried to pursue them. As the clones began to reach him, Rafe indicated Phisher and Bean, who in turn directed the newcomers to points of cover they'd discovered earlier, while they were waiting.

One of the Jedi sprung over the rise and slid down beside Rafe, panting.

"Where did you come from?" he asked, evidently astonished.

"I could ask you the same thing, General," Rafe replied, "We were told you were another two days' journey from here. Looks like the trip wasn't worth the effort."

"Come again?" the Jedi asked.

"We were sent to warn you about the Anuri, sir," Rafe said, continuing to fire on the enemy between words and purposefully avoiding looking at the Jedi, "They've sided with the Separatists."

Rafe's radio clicked, and he looked up to where Tavis was. Barely visible in his secured position, Tavis gestured. Rafe followed it, and saw that the droids and Anuri were splitting up and trying to flank them.

"Bean!" he shouted into his radio for the first time in what seemed like forever, "They're trying to flank us. Cut them down."

He realized after he'd said it that he was no longer the one in charge here. Two Jedi and a captain were among them now. Guiltily, he glanced at the Jedi.

"Sorry, sir, I shouldn't have-."

The Jedi waved him silent, seeming indifferent to the breach of protocol. Having caught his breath, the Jedi left the position and leaped out of cover to engage the enemy directly. Rafe noticed that he kept near to the cover provided by the clones, however.

Rafe tried to remind himself that he was now just one of many, as he'd always been before. But, even in the midst of battle, he still felt a keen awareness of the members of _Fortune_ , and little at all of the others among them. The others felt like ghosts to them, unreal; their intentions unreadable.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt a sudden twinge of fear. Of the original eight creatures (Theran could hardly be considered a man) he had been placed in charge of, only one remained. The other two with him didn't actually belong to him. He'd lost a tank, and almost his entire squad.

That was the sort of failure you couldn't recover from. Rafe realized this could be the last time he had command over _anyone_ , for any reason. With this disaster on his record, he could be demoted all the way back to private. Hell, he could be pulled from front line duty entirely.

The echo of Tavis' painful words rang in his head.

" _They're all going to die, Rafe. They're all dead."_

 _Fortune Actual._ His squad. Dead. After this, even if he survived the battle, what was left for him now he'd led an entire squad to its destruction?


	37. Fortune Go with Them

The ambush had cut their forces in half, but Anakin and Obi-Wan knew that it could easily have been the end of both of them. They didn't need to discuss it to know what had happened. The attack on the outposts had been meant not only to leave this area unguarded, but also to attract the Jedi to their deaths. Anakin and Obi-Wan had been meant to perish in that ambush, along with every clone they'd brought with them. They couldn't know for certain that the four soldiers they'd happened into had been what saved them, but it sure hadn't hurt to find them, and it was especially pleasing to find that the soldiers were familiar.

Anakin had met Corporal Bean when he'd gone to Onithera to look into what had happened there. It was he who had saved Bean from being executed for cowardice in face of the enemy and disobeying a direct order. It had been a small thing for him, but obviously had meant the world to Bean.

Obi-Wan had been the Jedi responsible for sending Phisher undercover to Onithera to begin with.

"Obi-Wan," Phisher said, removing his helmet so he could look his friend in the eye, "I didn't expect to see you again."

"It's good to see you, old friend," Obi-Wan remarked, "You're timing is as good as ever."

"Wasn't _my_ timing," Phisher said, and nodded towards his sergeant, "You've got Rafe to thank for it. If not for him, none of us would have gotten this far," he stopped, and his eyes fell.

It was Obi-Wan's first instinct to ask Phisher what had happened since last they'd met, but he knew that was far too long a story. Instead, he turned towards Anakin, who was at last receiving the report which the squad had fought so hard to deliver. Anakin could have guessed most of it after the ambush, but he let Bean report anyway. The Jedi's kindness to the clones was to respect the effort it had taken to deliver this message.

"The treachery of the Anuri changes things," Obi-Wan said to Anakin.

"But what happened to the villages?" Anakin wondered, "Them siding with the Separatists doesn't explain _that_."

"Perhaps not, but it's clear we need to alter our tactics, and get word back to our main forces," Obi-Wan said.

They looked towards Rafe, who was being addressed by Rex. The Jedi couldn't hear from where they were standing, but Rex looked like he was angry about something, perhaps something Rafe had said.

* * *

Rex _was_ angry.

"Just what the hell did you do to this squad?" Rex demanded, "They were in perfect fighting shape when I finished with them. And now you've only got one left, besides the ones you say you left behind, who may now be dead for all you know."

"Let him alone, Captain," Tavis said, having joined them unnoticed, "This was the Sergeant's first command, and you and I both know how _Fortune_ can be."

"You mean how they _were_ ," Rex was just short of spitting mad, only barely acknowledging Tavis before returning his attention to Rafe, "That squad was _built_ for this kind of mission. Only sheer incompetence could have achieved these kinds of results."

"With respect, sir," Rafe said, his voice a low growl, "You weren't there. You can't know."

"I know that squad," Rex retorted coldly, "I know how they operate. You're telling me one of them died in a river crossing, and three more were taken down by a local predator? I don't believe any of that."

"But it's true, sir," Rafe said, "And the other one was wounded in an accident with the tank. You can check that one with Sergeant Nattan."

"If I can find him!" Rex snapped, "You appear to have left him somewhere out in a swamp, unable to move from that position until you come back for him, assuming he and his men are still there."

"Captain Rex, it wasn't Sergeant Rafe's fault," Tavis persisted in sticking his opinion in where it wasn't wanted, "You're being unreasonable. Think about it, could you have predicted that ambush a few minutes ago?" Rex had turned to glare at Tavis, but now he was silenced, "Would you blame any of your men for not having seen it coming?"

"No," Rex answered.

"So why are you blaming Rafe for events that were beyond his control?" Tavis asked, then added hastily, "Sir."

At this accusation, Rex flinched. Perhaps he was rushing to judgment this time. It wasn't his habit to do that, and he was momentarily puzzled by his own anger. Maybe his short time with the squad had affected him more than he'd realized. They were certainly a unique bunch.

"Rex, we're moving out," Anakin called.

"Yes sir," Rex said, not looking away from Tavis.

"Captain," Rafe said quietly, "With your permission... I have men out there. I need to find them, or find out what happened to them at least. Please, sir. You don't need my help to do your job."

Rex turned to where Phisher was still speaking with Obi-Wan, and Bean standing slightly off to the side, looking lost by himself. Then he looked at Tavis again. Finally he focused on Rafe.

"If the Generals agree to it, you... and your men," he nodded to include the other three, "may return to find your missing, bury your dead and complete your mission."

It wasn't over, they knew, until the clones left behind (along with the tank) were accounted for.

"Thank you sir," Rafe managed, his throat tight.

"Fortune go with you, Captain," Tavis said as Rex started to turn away from them.

"And you," Rex returned quietly.

* * *

It had taken a bit of convincing on the part of Phisher to get Obi-Wan to agree to let them go. Phisher had pointed out that Obi-Wan had other responsibilities and limited resources, and therefore couldn't spare the time or the men to help them complete their task. And Phisher had also, in his own way, bridged the gap between Jedi and clones, expressing in terms Obi-Wan understood and that wouldn't embarrass the clones that they needed to do this.

"We found our way once, General," Phisher had said finally, "We'll find it again."

Obi-Wan had, to Rafe's great surprise, let them go.

Except for Bean, who, as the messenger and a pilot had to be returned to where he could do the most good. Without having to be told, Rafe knew Bean would find a way to be leading, or at least among the retrieval ships when evacuation of the area became possible. _If_ it became possible.

Turning back the way he'd come, Rafe felt as though a great weight had suddenly lifted, a heavy burden he hadn't even realized he was carrying. Finally, he was going back to find out what had become of the men he'd left behind. He had not forgotten what Tavis had said, and couldn't help but remember that Tavis had so far been right about every prediction he'd made, or that -even if they were alive- they would be unable to travel. But he _had_ to know.

It was as if they'd been walking up a steep hill against the wind all this time, and suddenly that was reversed. Rafe knew what it was. He'd finished the mission that required him to leave his men behind, and now he was going back to where he belonged. He was going home.

Even if the men were dead, he had to go back. He had to see for himself. He had to know. Until he did, the significance of what he'd accomplished meant nothing. All that mattered to him was _Fortune_. Phisher clearly felt the same way. Only Tavis remained slow, and Rafe had a feeling it didn't have much to do with his injury. At least, not his physical one.

Rafe signaled Phisher to take the lead, and fell back to walk with Tavis.

He had learned something of the other clone in their time together. Sometimes, he realized, it was better to be silent, and let Tavis speak in his own time. This was not one of those times.

"What is it, Tavis? What's bothering you?" Rafe asked, though he felt that he already knew.

"It's not my place to-" Rafe interrupted him.

"Your place," he said sharply, "is where I tell you it is. Talk to me, Tay."

"It's really not important," Tavis tried to evade again.

"I'll be the judge of that. Out with it."

Tavis hesitated, concentrating on his path to buy himself time. But Rafe was patient now. He'd made his demand to Tavis, repeating it wouldn't hurry him along with whatever conflict he had going on.

"I am..." he struggled with the last word, finally caught it and forced it out, "afraid."

Rafe nodded, "Afraid of what you saw?"

Tavis said nothing, but it was an answer all the same.

"Tell me," Rafe said after a moment, "What are you more afraid of?"

Tavis faltered in his step, and it had nothing to do with the limp. He looked at Rafe questioningly as he regained his stride, "I don't understand."

"Are you more afraid that you're right? That what you saw is true? That they're all dead?" Rafe asked, "Or is what terrifies you the most the possibility that you're wrong? That they're alive, and you'll have to go on being responsible for them? That you'll be bound to them just like you've always been? That from here on out things just get harder and harder, and for what? For a squad you never wanted, but can't seem to escape? Is that what you're afraid of?"

Tavis had stopped walking, and now Rafe stepped directly in front of him, facing him fully.

"That's it, isn't it? You're more afraid of them being alive, because that means _you_ have to go on living. You have to keep... existing. You're scared to death that they need you, that they'll keep on needing you. That terrifies you, because of all the people in this world you trust, you aren't one of them."

"Oh please," Tavis spat, trying to step past him, but Rafe blocked the way.

"You are so trusting, Tavis. And you have so much faith in others," Rafe said, grabbing Tavis by the elbow to prevent him from continuing to try and walk away, "Why don't you have any in yourself?"

Tavis stiffened in his grip, and a tremor ran through him.

"Please, Rafe," his voice became softer now, quietly frantic, "Please, just let me go."

"No. Not until you talk to me, Tavis," Rafe said firmly, "I've seen the way you feel about this squad. You'd do anything for _Fortune Actual_. Fight, lie, and die for it."

"Rafe, stop it," Tavis now attempted to back away, but Rafe held him fast.

"But you're terrified of living for it," Rafe suddenly realized what he should have known all along, and at last released Tavis, who stumbled back a step before standing still, averting his eyes, "Because... you don't think you deserve them. You think... because of what's happened to you... you think you're not good enough for them anymore. You're scared to death of failing them when they need you the most."

Tavis was trembling openly now. Rafe knew, somewhere behind him, Phisher had stopped, but was remaining politely beyond earshot.

"You're so devoted to them, so drawn to them, that you couldn't get away if you tried. You're stuck with them. But you'd rather they be dead now, so you don't have to go on worrying about them."

Tavis said nothing, but his hands fisted at his sides, fighting down the emotion Rafe was dragging forcibly to the surface.

"And you hate that. You hate wishing them dead. But you're too scared to do anything else. You told me yourself. You don't trust yourself. Can't trust yourself. But they... do trust you. They trust you more than they trust themselves, even Volk, the most suspicious of them all. They'd follow you anywhere. You can't stand for them to care for you as deeply as you care for them, because you can only imagine them suffering for it, and eventually coming to hate you for not being everything they need you to be."

"So do what you've wanted all along," Tavis snarled suddenly, backing up another step, "Go ahead. You wanted me dead. Solve both our problems! Save us both the misery of having to deal with me!"

"Tavis..." Rafe hesitated, because what he was about to say would sound utterly soft, and he was half-afraid it would only hurt the other clone more than he already was.

Rafe hadn't realized it before, but this was a wounded thing, a creature in constant pain because his best was never enough, and he was cracking under the pressure. Tavis himself had told Rafe what to look for, but though he'd seen it in Volk, he'd failed to notice it in Tavis soon enough. Tavis had a heavier burden than any of them, was under a constant strain Rafe couldn't even imagine.

Now, what he needed most, was a reason to continue carrying it.

"Tavis, if I could undo what was done to you..." he shook his head, started again, "If I could take it on myself, I would. Because I know _Fortune_ needs you. It needs you more than it could ever need me. But I can't do that. I can't undo or change any of it. I haven't the power... and I'm sorry for that."

He paused, gathering himself, getting control of himself.

"I was given a gift when I was assigned to _Fortune Actual_. And I squandered it. Hell, I ripped it to pieces and trampled it. I cannot... Tavis... I can't fix it. I need you to help me. Whether the others are alive or not, you yourself declared that I was a part of _Fortune_. _I_ exist, Tavis. _I_ live. And I need you. Which means that you are obligated to continue. You _must_ continue. _Fortune_ _must_ survive."

Tavis didn't respond, but he was no longer backing away. He'd unclenched his fists.

"You know the mistakes I've made," Rafe continued, "Things I can never atone for. Believe me, there is nothing you could say or do, or fail to say or do, that could make me think any less of you than I think of myself right now. I can't promise you much, but I can promise you that. I will not, ever, ask more of you than you have to give. But I will demand, as your sergeant, that you give all you have for this squad. And if you ever do anything that unnecessarily endangers this squad, I will not be sentimental, so that fear is on me, not on you. _Me_. Do you understand me?"

Tavis took a shaky breath, and spoke in a weak voice, "You... are not my sergeant. I'm not a part of _Fortune Actual_ anymore, remember?"

"Not officially," Rafe admitted, "But look at Bean. At Phisher. One of them's a pilot, the other isn't even a clone. And yet, they both belong to _Fortune_. And so do you. That fact makes me your sergeant. Now, I'll ask you one more time, do you understand what I've said?"

" _Fortune_ ," Tavis said slowly, as though he'd almost forgotten the words, "goes with us."

Rafe finished it, "And _Actual_ survives. We survive. We are _Fortune_ , Tavis. You and I, and Bean and Phisher. Four of us survive. If that is all... then that is still enough. We are _Fortune Actual_."


	38. Actual Survives

For once, it was not raining. The smooth, flat rock leading up to the cave was marred by a peculiar color that hadn't been there before. It took the three soldiers a lengthy moment to identify what it was in the dying light of late evening. It was Rafe who moved them forward, but even he felt uncertainty, unease at the deathly silence that greeted them, even though they'd called out, announcing their presence to avoid being inadvertently shot by one of the men inside the cave.

The darkness of the rocky ground was disturbing, but Rafe stepped onto it, ignoring the crunching sound of his boots as he stepped towards the cave entrance. He repeated the call to the men inside, but there was no response. He looked at the layer of black coating everything outside the cave and as far as he could see inside, millions of small, beetle-like insects felled by means he didn't understand.

"Wait here," he told Phisher, then nodded towards the cave, "Tavis."

With obvious reluctance but unhesitating obedience, Tavis followed him into the cave. Rafe knew that someday, if Tavis ever rebuilt the confidence he'd clearly had in himself while serving on Onithera, the PFC would make good on his threat to fight Rafe for control of the squad. But that day was not today. Today, the word of the sergeant was law.

"Volk," Rafe called into the darkness, reluctantly, "Doc. Garm... Damyu."

No response. The wind kicked up outside, a thin tendril found its way into the cave and bounced around the hollow chamber, echoing off the walls and ceiling.

"Tavis?" Rafe turned, but Tavis just shook his head that he didn't know.

Reluctant to use whatever remained of the power in his helmet light, Rafe nonetheless felt he had no alternative but to turn it on. Tavis followed his example, and they blinked as they adjusted to the abrupt artificial light. Then they looked around. At first, all they saw was the blanket of blackness, insect bodies lay like a thick carpet on the floor. Then Tavis pointed out a lump near Rafe, that could have been a rock, but he knew at once it was not.

Rafe knelt beside the body and brushed off some of the dead insects, before realizing it was a pointless activity. He checked the downed trooper for signs of life. To his intense relief, his finger tips met a steady heartbeat. A flood of relief surged through him and he sighed.

Tavis had found another body and was checking it. He nodded to Rafe. They were alive. All four of them. Alive, but unconscious... Rafe looked around for a clue as to what had happened, but Tavis came up with the piece that solved the puzzle. A shell fragment of a flash-bang just a few feet inside the cave.

"Caden was right," Tavis said, "A flash-bang didn't just stun them, it killed them."

"And knocked our guys cold," Rafe finished the assessment, "They've probably been out for hours."

"Only Volk would dare set off a flash-bang in this type of enclosed space," Tavis said, "He's the only one of them crazy enough to try it."

By then, they'd unburied their team mates, and shifted them slightly so they could breathe more easily. Rafe looked from one to the other, and noted that Garm was down a grenade. He nodded towards him.

"Garm might've given up a grenade, but he wouldn't have tossed it in here," Tavis said, "He couldn't have. Garm's the protector. He wouldn't have been able to bring himself to take that risk. But he could have prompted Volk to do it."

Rafe nodded quietly. He knew he still had much to learn about the intricacies of this squad. And he knew that this, more than anything, was what he desperately needed Tavis for.

"We're not out of trouble yet," Rafe said, more to himself than Tavis, "A grenade set off in here could do worse than kill them. Without their helmets on... they could be blind, deaf or both. It was a crazy risk to take."

"It was a calculated risk."

Tavis and Rafe looked quickly around to Volk, who coughed and dragged himself to a sitting position.

"We gambled that Cade was right," Volk continued, his voice thin and hoarse.

"Not much of a gamble, in my experience," Rafe observed.

Volk shook his head, "Caden had it figured out, just like always."

He leaned back against the cave wall with a tired sigh, closing his eyes against the glare of the helmet lights. When Rafe slightly turned his head so the light wasn't entirely on Volk's face, he opened his eyes and looked at the sergeant, then at Tavis, then back.

"We made it?"

"Message delivered," Rafe said, "Bean's on his way back home now. General Skywalker assured him that he'll pilot a craft again."

Volk smiled, just slightly, "Beanie's earned it."

"That he has," Rafe agreed, "Now all we've got to do is wait for the ships to come. They know where we are, which is more than any other survivors in the area have. Except for Nattan and his crew."

"You didn't have to come back," Volk told him, "We'd have waited."

"I _did_ have to come back," Rafe corrected him quietly, "I had to know."

Volk looked past Rafe to Tavis, humor in his dark eyes, "Why, he's getting as soft as you are, Tavis."

"Well at least I'm not crazy enough to set off a flash-bang in a cave without even putting my helmet on," Tavis retorted good-naturedly.

"There wasn't time," Volk replied with a shrug, "Besides... I didn't think of it."

"And to think," Tavis said, "You used to be the one giving me grief for losing track of _my_ helmet."

"That was only once," Volk reminded him.

"Only once? Only... Volk, you almost beaned me with it."

"And then you nearly drowned me. I think that makes us even," Volk pointed out.

"Me, drown you? You tried to _kill_ me."

"Kids, kids," Rafe interrupted, "While I admit this trip down memory lane is fascinating, I think we can all agree that trying to kill each other was a mistake, and leave it at that."

There was a momentary silence, which Volk decided to break.

"Sarge is a bit sensitive, isn't he?"

"Well, he's new at this, remember," Tavis said, his way of agreeing, "Give him time, and he'll turn into the same kind of cold, callous bastard we naturally expect all sergeants to be."

"You know, I'm beginning to regret having come back here," Rafe said, looking from Tavis to Volk in irritation that was mostly feigned, "By yourselves, you two are maddening. Together, you're utterly impossible."

They looked at him, then each other, and then Volk spoke for them both.

"Why thank you, Sergeant."

It was by then quite evident that Volk, who had been closest to the blast, could hear and see perfectly well.

Looking at Volk as he spoke, Rafe became aware of Tavis moving away from them only because Volk's eyes followed the PFC. Turning, Rafe saw that Tavis had moved towards the cave's entrance. There he stood, seeming momentarily anxious, before moving to rejoin them. Volk behaved as though he hadn't noticed. Rafe decided to take his cue from Volk for the moment.

Besides, he knew what Tavis was thinking. The same thought had crossed his mind. These men were alive and well (relatively speaking), when Tavis had felt them die. But they were not all of _Fortune Actual_.

Theran had run away, and Rafe could not bring himself to be concerned with a creature that had abandoned the squad. But Caden had been left behind, with the promise of medical help when the mission was complete. But Rafe had brought no one back with him, no one could be spared but those who had initially traveled out with him. There was no point in going to Caden now, especially since that would require leaving Garm and Damyu here. There was no percentage in leaving them to go to someone they could not help.

These men were in a dangerous location, and could use the extra protection Rafe, Tavis and Phisher could provide. Caden was with the tank crew, and there was no greater protection Rafe could offer. Which meant that Caden was, for the moment, on his own.

Yet the instinct was strong in Rafe now, to go to his men, to see to their needs, to ensure their continued survival. He knew Tavis felt it most strongly of all, and that his rationality was weaker.

Rafe glanced at Volk, who kept his face carefully impassive. If he felt anything at all about leaving Caden behind, he was keeping it to himself, as he had kept things to himself from the start.

 _Funny_ , Rafe thought, _I barely even know Caden._

He looked at the ground, its thick blanket of dead insects a testament to the effectiveness of the flash-bangs. Rafe wondered if any of them would have thought of those if Caden hadn't. Even if they had, how long would it have taken them? At a guess, he'd say too long.

Too many GAR troopers had stumbled into the Suicide Holes. Too many airships had been pulled down. No one had ever come back alive to tell what had happened. None of them had thought of the flash-bangs or, if they had, it had been too late for them to save themselves.

Did Volk realize he was only alive now because of his brother? Or did he think about who had given him the knowledge he'd needed to save himself and his men? Thinking back, Rafe remembered Volk and Caden conferring with one another many times, though he'd never been sure who initiated contact. How smart was Volk really? And how well could the squad do without Caden?

He was surprised by his own question. Of the lot of them, Caden was in the most secure position. Rafe knew Nattan well enough to know the tank sergeant wouldn't let harm come to an injured soldier under his protection. He'd take care of Caden well enough.

So why did Rafe feel a sudden twinge of worry?

Watching Tavis try to pretend he wasn't pacing was answer enough. Tavis was worried. That was reason enough for concern.

* * *

Kavan had been forced to tear free of B'Lyt to get back to the surface. The Anuri had far greater lung capacity than he did, and didn't seem aware that Kavan was drowning. The clone's head broke the surface and he gasped as water slid down his helmet in a rush. He shook his head, looking around.

At the shore, it looked like a junkyard; droids had fallen every which way, often one on top of the other, as their power cells were drained and the electrical current that powered them was interrupted. Some of them were quietly smoking, as though an internal fire had been started.

But something else had happened.

Looking around, Kavan saw no sign at all of the insects. Not on the droids, nor in the air. He felt a prickle of unease. There was no way the insects could have departed so quickly. Even now, he couldn't entirely believe what he'd discovered as he climbed out of the water. Nor could he explain what he saw.

The swarm had not left. It had fallen from the sky, fallen like rain, crashed down atop the mud, among the droid corpses. Dead. Hundreds, thousands, perhaps millions, of insects seemed to have all spontaneously died. Kavan didn't get it. Nor did B'Lyt, when he eventually surfaced.

"I have never seen anything like this," B'Lyt said, flicking out his tongue and snatching up a number of the dead insects, swallowing them and croaking with pleasure.

Kavan did his best to conceal his revulsion, turning away to examine the droids more closely.

"How could something so small do so much damage?" he wondered, "The swarm took out all of these droids in... seconds. No more than a minute."

"This is reality as the Anuri know it," B'Lyt replied, licking one of his eyes, "Instant death on the land, with carnage awaiting beneath the surface."

That had gotten Kavan onto a different track entirely.

"Caden?" he looked around, "Where's Caden? And that creature... Theran?"

B'Lyt croaked indifferently, "Perhaps eaten. Perhaps run away. It does not matter, they are gone."

 _Would that I had your philosophy rather than my own_ , Kavan thought as he began to search for signs of Caden.

He was interrupted by a loud barking sound that dissolved into a low roar. He didn't know what creature the sound belonged to until he noted the baffled look on B'Lyt's face. There was only one creature he knew of whose vocalization would not be immediately identifiable by B'Lyt.

Theran.

It came from the opposite bank of the pool where they'd hidden. Kavan hurried around it, and found Theran crouched in a thicket, standing over Caden. The reptilian eyes blazed as Kavan approached, and a snarl ripped from its throat. But Theran allowed him to approach. B'Lyt had followed Kavan, but was unable to work up the nerve to approach. Instead he squatted in the mud and croaked to himself.

Kavan listened for a moment, then hurriedly pulled off Caden's helmet and the chest plate of his armor. Theran, grasping the concept, helped him, pulling the chest plate away and carrying it off a few steps before lying down on top of the piece of armor and beginning to chirp in the way Kavan had come to recognize as gentle encouragement, the type a mother animal gives to a frightened baby. He wasn't sure if the chirping was meant for him or Caden. Like as not, Theran himself was not sure.

"Dammit, Caden," Kavan hissed under his breath, "You're the one that dragged me out here. Come on, breathe you son-of-a-bitch. Breathe, Caden!"

As if in answer, Caden abruptly choked, twisted in an attempt to turn on his side and coughed up some water. Kavan rolled him onto his side and Caden groaned. But he also breathed.

"Man," Kavan said, gasping in relief, "Keeping you alive is a full time job, you know that?"

Caden managed to choke out, "What? You got somethin' better to do?" before he resumed coughing.

Kavan laughed, shook his head and patted Caden's arm.

"No," he admitted, "As it happens, I don't."


	39. Reassignment

The evacuation of Morassis was a protracted affair. When the Separatist forces discovered that the Republic was trying to pull out, they doubled their efforts to destroy as many soldiers as they possibly could before the retrieval ships arrived. Their plan to back troops into the waiting Anuri ambushes was obviously not going to succeed. They abandoned the quadrant with _Fortune Actual_ then, it wasn't worth it to hang around and pick off stragglers. When rescue airships flew over the area after the Separatists abandoned it, survivors sent up flares or short-distance radio signals to tell of their location. They were either picked up or given coordinates to a pick up site. If they were unable to move, men were deployed to retrieve them.

In this manner, _Beauty_ and her crew were retrieved. So was _Fortune Actual_. It shortly became evident that Caden was not with either group. When Rafe demanded to know what had happened, Nattan related events as he understood them. While the rest of the squad was carried off to safety on board a cruiser orbiting the planet, Caden was still down there somewhere, alone.

Volk nearly went ballistic, but Tavis placed a restraining hand on him, and quietly reminded him that Nattan had said Theran was probably with him. Caden wasn't truly alone, not with Theran around.

There were so many wounded that the hospital section of the ships overflowed, and some of the more intact soldiers had to be shunted off to regular quarters. Garm was stable enough for this, but Damyu had to be kept under close watch. Medics from many squads were enlisted to help the medical droids. As per usual, Doc was mistaken for a true medic and employed as such. Volk and Tavis were practically ignored, their injuries were minor and mainly needed time to heal.

Rafe spent a great deal of time staring helplessly out a porthole at the planet below. Somewhere down in that mess, he was missing two of his people. He hoped the third, Bean, could find them.

Unlike the rest of _Fortune_ , Corporal Bean's services were much needed on the planet below. He was a skilled pilot, and was intimately familiar with most of the areas they were trying to evacuate. That he'd crashed a ship wasn't even brought up, much to his surprise and relief. He was simply handed a larty that was lacking a pilot (killed in action) and told to get to work doing what he was best at.

During the evacuation of Republic forces from Morassis, the pilots were pushed to their limits. There were so many people to get off the planet -not only GAR troopers but Anuri who sought asylum- and so few pilots. Every day, as Separatist drones gunned them down, there were fewer. Every day, Bean escaped by the skin of his teeth and, after making his official report, he tracked down Rafe or another member of _Fortune Actual_ , reporting to them that there'd so far been no sign of Caden or Theran.

"If we don't find him soon," Volk remarked one night, "We'll be forced to leave without him."

Rafe said nothing. He knew that, if Caden wasn't found soon, he might as well be dead. He was hurt, on his own, with only the supplies he'd been carrying, which had surely run out by now. Every day cut his chances of surviving long enough to be found that much more. It was slowly driving Rafe crazy, and he knew it was doing the same to the others. They would have given anything to get back down to the planet and be part of the evacuation teams.

Those who were fit had volunteered to fill out ranks on the planet surface, or to take on odd jobs, but they hadn't been called on. There was nothing they could do except for wait. Aside from Doc, there was nothing for any of them to do but stay out of the way.

Before the evacuation was completed, Damyu was well enough to be sent off to his own bunk. Volk seemed to have more or less fully recovered, and spent his days restlessly walking the hallways, growling at anybody who took notice of him. Rafe understood his feeling, but couldn't afford the luxury of mindless pacing. Instead, he spent his days trying to find the squad Tavis was supposed to belong to, or find out what ship they were on. He wanted Tavis transferred, and -though it felt wrong- he was almost hoping the squad Tavis been assigned had been effectively destroyed. Otherwise, the hassle of getting Tavis transferred might be too much for him.

When he asked Phisher about trying to work the system in his favor, Phisher just shook his head.

"As a non-clone, and friend of a Jedi, I had an advantage once. What you need now is Caden. If he can talk the GAR into putting an Onitheran onto a fireteam, he can talk them into anything. If you want Tavis, you need Caden's silver tongue to get him."

"I don't have Caden," Rafe pointed out, "What I've got is you."

"I gave up all rights to get into this army. Now I'm just a private, with no more clout than Damyu. I'm effectively just a clone now."

"Can't you talk to your Jedi friend... Kenobi?"

"Obi-Wan has enough problems without my adding to them," Phisher replied evenly, "Besides, I owe him far more than he owes me."

Rafe had kept pushing on that front, but Phisher's responses never varied. Rafe needed Tavis. _Fortune Actual_ needed Tavis. Tavis was the soul, the beating heart of _Fortune_. And he was the balance for Volk. Without him, the squad could not function as it needed to. Without Caden, there would be no Tavis in _Fortune Actual_. More than one life was riding on Bean's ability to find their missing man.

Bean must have known it, because he requested to be deployed in the area where Caden was likely to be again and again, despite the steadily increasing danger in the sector now that other areas had been completely evacuated. Rafe knew Bean took the risk for _Fortune_ , because he was _Fortune_ , whatever his file had to say. He belonged to them, as surely as Rafe himself did.

As days passed with no word of Caden, Rafe thought more than once to tell Tavis that he was trying, but so far hadn't found Tavis' old squad, nor did he have any credible way of asking to keep Tavis on without knowing that the squad he was assigned to had been destroyed.

When Rafe finally did find out the squad was present on another ship, he felt he had to tell Tavis, to explain that he had no way of keeping the PFC on with _Fortune_. If he put in a request, it was sure to be rejected because that was easier than the paperwork involved in moving a clone from one existing squad to another. Rafe would just be handed another clone to fill out the ranks, because all clones were supposedly interchangeable. He couldn't think how to explain to his superiors that he wanted Tavis specifically, and that no other clone would be a suitable alternative to having him.

But when he looked at Tavis, Rafe knew he didn't need to say it. Tavis already knew. Not because of any special ability, but because he knew the GAR as Rafe did. Because Tavis was now a PFC, it was easy to forget he had been a corporal once, and acted as a squad sergeant during that time. In experience, if not rank, Tavis was equal to any sergeant. And because of who he was, more than what he was or what he could do, Tavis knew Rafe better than Rafe knew himself. He knew what Rafe was capable of, and that he was trying.

"It's okay, Sarge," Tavis said quietly one evening when Bean had given another negative report, "Sometimes things are just a certain way, and there's nothing you can do about it."

"I feel so helpless," Rafe admitted, his tone almost angry, "I can't help Caden, and I can't help you."

"I'll be alright, Sarge," Tavis told him, "You said yourself that I'm a part of _Fortune_ , wherever I go."

"You shouldn't be going anywhere," Rafe spat, "Especially not with a squad that wants you dead."

"Getting killed in the line of duty is part of the mandate. Being cannon fodder is practically our job," Tavis reminded him.

"No," Rafe said quietly, "That may be what other soldiers think, what they do. But that's not the future I see for this squad, Tavis," he looked sidelong at the PFC, "I intend for this squad to live, regardless of what it takes to make sure that it does."

Tavis turned to look fully at him, "Better be careful who you say that to, Sarge. There are those in the GAR who would consider that a traitor's view of things, valuing himself and his men above the mission and the will of the Republic."

"The Republic," Rafe grunted, "What is that even? It's something we'll never see, Tavis. For all you and I know, it may not even be real. We're out here on the frontlines, but have any of us ever seen any of what it is we're supposed to be fighting for?"

"That's the kind of question that leads to desertion," Tavis warned.

"So turn me in," Rafe said, "But you know I'm right."

"Let's say you are," Tavis said agreeably, "What do you intend to do about it?"

"Whatever it takes to make sure _Fortune_ survives. If that means following orders, we follow orders. If that means deserting, then so be it. I will not place higher value on something which may not even exist for all I know than I do on something I know is real, something I can feel exists."

"How do you know the _Fortune_ you're talking about exists? It's no more tangible than the Republic."

"Like I said, I feel this. I know this. I can't prove it, but I know it. I was not assigned to _Fortune_ by accident. You did not return to _Fortune_ by accident. _Fortune_ was not formed by accident. We are here for a reason, Tavis. We are _Fortune_... and _Fortune_ exists for a reason."

A hauntingly familiar call caught both their attention. They had barely turned towards it when Theran launched himself at Tavis, issuing an enthusiastic honk. Knocking the clone flat, Theran began to make an affectionate cooing sound and buried his muzzle against Tavis' neck.

Rafe watched this for a moment, then turned to look back down the hall. Could it be that Caden had somehow survived, somehow gotten to the ship without Bean's being aware of it? Was it possible?

It was.

Ragged, worn out, dirty and bloodied, Caden was nevertheless alive and limping towards them, another clone that Rafe didn't recognize in tow.

"Theran, get off," Caden said when he got close enough, to give the creature a tap on the back, "Tavis can't breathe."

Theran honked again, but obediently lifted his weight off Tavis' chest. Tavis gave an exaggerated gasp and pushed Theran the rest of the way off before climbing back to his feet. He'd barely registered Caden when the other clone let out a cry of astonishment.

"Tavis! You're... you're alive. I thought for sure... I mean..." the other clone obviously couldn't form a coherent sentence to save his life.

"Kavan," Tavis nodded slightly, "You look well."

"Yeah, no thanks to the squad I was assigned," the clone, a medic, responded, "They just abandoned me in the middle of a fight, told me to stay behind and cover their retreat."

"It sounds like you're fortunate to have survived," Tavis said.

Caden laughed at this, tucking an arm to his side, "Ow. Tavis, don't do that," but the laughter was only momentarily stifled.

"I don't get it," Kavan admitted, which sent Caden into another fit of amused laughter.

When he finally recovered from his fit, Caden turned his attention at last to Rafe.

"It's good to have you back," Rafe said, "Your presence was sorely missed."

"The feeling is mutual," Caden told him, "When Theran came back alone, I thought..." his voice cracked and he fought down the emotion, "I thought for sure you guys were dead."

"We very nearly were," Tavis remarked.

"One of us is," Rafe reminded him, very softly, "Onoff."

Caden looked from one face to the other. He said nothing, but to Rafe, it looked unmistakably like he knew. Somehow... Caden knew. And, as all of us must, he accepted the reality. As most clones do, he allowed his emotions to be seen for only a brief moment before choking down whatever feelings he had about the loss of his brother. His face became a mask of calm, but his voice sounded too restrained.

"He was a good man. It's a shame we lost him. Still, it had to happen sooner or later."

To anyone but another clone, the words would sound cold and heartless. But to Rafe, the extent of the restraint in Caden's voice spoke more eloquently of the pain of loss than any tears or words could have.

After an appropriate moment of silence, Rafe decided to change the subject.

"Caden, I know you've had a rough time of it, but I have something to ask of you."

Caden cocked his head in Rafe's direction curiously. Theran, at his side, hissed warily.

"It is for the good of _Fortune_ ," Rafe clarified.

"Well don't chew on it then," Caden said, his voice still unnaturally level, "Spit it out."

"It's about Tavis," Rafe told him, then proceeded to explain, "As you know, Tavis was-"

"Reassigned," Caden interrupted, "and put under the control of a Jedi gone bad. After destroying her in order to protect his men and any clones who came after him, he was demoted, reassigned a second time to a new squad. Assuming Kavan here is to be believed," Caden nodded towards the medic.

"He couldn't lie if his life depended on it," Tavis remarked.

"True," Kavan answered with a slight nod.

"That presents us with a bit of a problem," Rafe said, ignoring both of them and favoring Caden with his full attention, "Tavis is one of us, and belongs with us."

"Frankly," Caden said, "It's the only logical place for him, seeing as everyone else wants him and anybody who knows him dead. But I haven't seen what your problem is yet."

"The squad he was assigned to still exists, relatively intact. They'll want him back."

"They will not," Tavis corrected him.

"But the GAR won't see it that way. You belong to them, according to the rules as I understand them," Rafe said, then resumed speaking to Caden, "And I have no grounds to ask for him under these circumstances. I'm told you can help."

"I can at that," Caden said with a thoughtful nod, "And I don't see what's so difficult about it."

"You don't?" Rafe asked, while Tavis tried unsuccessfully to hide his amusement.

"No. All we have to do is tell them what they want to hear. Tavis is already among us, and the other squad is on another ship or else he'd be with them even now. It is therefore easier to leave him here, if his own squad voices no objections."

"And you think that will work?" Rafe asked, incredulous.

"Why not?" Caden shrugged passively, "It's the same logic that took him from us to begin with, and added you to our number. It was easier to ship Tavis off than to bring him back to us, easier to assign a newly promoted sergeant to a squad missing one than to bring in Tavis, have him jump through the hoops necessary to become a sergeant and send him back to us."

"That may look good on paper," Rafe said, "But it doesn't make any sense."

"I know," Caden said, "But, fortunately for us, it doesn't have to."


	40. We Are Fortune

There is an order to all things, including those things which seem rooted in chaos, the apparent antithesis of order. There is reason and pattern to all that are born, who live and breathe, who exist and then cease to be. All are driven by imperatives which they themselves may fail to understand, following a nature which is their own, yet they may not recognize it, pursuing a state of being which is not their own design, but which they most often mistake as a product of their own wisdom or genius.

Even as the clones of _Fortune Actual_ seemed to individually and collectively be coming unraveled, to be spinning towards a chaos which would swallow them whole and inevitably break them, they had answered in unison, in absolute harmony, to one demand, to one soundless voice which called them to be as they were, and drew them to pursue one goal together, even as they were physically separated.

As they had stepped deeper into the private darkness of the despairing soul and forsaken spirit, they were drawn by subconscious will or natural design towards an answer to a question they had not known they were asking, would in fact have denied ever thinking of.

In the limited wisdom of the living, they could not fathom the order of existence, though they could feel wants and needs and drives, it was not given to them -or to anyone- to fully comprehend the nature of the universe. For that is beyond the ken of any being, as it must be.

For within that perfect order, design, purpose, reason and balance, there is an absolute contradiction in logic. For, while all is as it must be, fate does not act alone in guiding those who are bound by it. In the infinite strangeness of reality, fate and choice move side by side, equal, opposite, yet fully present in all things. What is fate, and what is choice? There is no clear line between them at heart.

Certainly the soldiers of _Fortune Actual_ did not stop to ask or answer that question.

At the end of the campaign for Morassis, all was as it must be, as it had always been meant to be. Regardless of the rightness or wrongness, it had all -from start to finish- been as fate decreed. Yet, at each step, every member of _Fortune_ had made choices based off of his nature and understanding of circumstances. And, at the end, _Fortune Actual_ was whole.

Whether it was whole again, or whole for the first time, none could say for certain.

Rafe remained the sergeant of _Fortune Actual_. Fireteam one was headed by Corporal Tavis; its ranks filled out by PFC Caden, Private Phisher and Theran. Fireteam two's leader remained Corporal Volk, with PFC Garm and Privates Doc and Damyu following.

Corporal Bean resumed his duties as a pilot, with a new gunner crew, but the same co-pilot.

* * *

"Now we're gimp buddies," Damyu pronounced, nudging Tavis' shoulder with his own in a gesture of rough affection that nearly knocked them both off-balance.

"I hope yours is temporary," Tavis replied calmly, "Mine is permanent."

 _Fortune Actual_ had, among other squads, been deployed to the planet with the initial instructions to guard the area, holding it as a landing pad for lartys as the Republic attempted to gain a foothold on the world. For Garm, it was practically a dream come true. Sentry postings and constant patrols were his favorite, and he wasn't shy about making sure the rest of the squad knew he was deeply in love with guard duty. The rest of them, like normal people, found the duty boring.

"Well, at least I don't think I can be called a shiny anymore," Damyu told him.

The armor of clones who had served on Morassis was more or less permanently stained, and it was more hassle than it was worth to replace it. For the same reason, clones with dented or scratched armor usually kept it. Over time, it had become a kind of badge of honor, to wear the same armor throughout a career. Every scratch, every scorch, every dent and ding had a story, and most clones were more than happy to share theirs.

Damyu's armor had been repaired, but a scar ran across its surface, showing plainly where the torn pieces had been bent and forced back together. Garm's armor had a similar marking in a different spot, telling the same story without his having to, that something had sliced through it and tried to lay him open. Anyone seeing such armor markings knew it had either been a narrow escape or a near-death experience, and that awareness affected how they interacted with the clones who had that armor.

"Eh, you'll always be a rookie to us," Tavis told him, "Until somebody shinier comes along."

"Thanks a lot," Damyu said sarcastically.

The two of them probably should have expected it, but the attack completely blindsided both of them as it came from behind, the direction of the camp. It was more of a scuffle than a fight really. Taken from behind by those with training equal to their own meant Damyu and Tavis had no chance, and were quickly pinned. They knew at once they were fighting against GAR troopers.

Tavis even knew which one had hold of him.

"You don't want to do this, Ferris," he warned, "For your own sake, back off now and we'll forget this happened."

"Shut up!" Ferris, his knee against Tavis' back, struck him alongside the head with the butt of his rifle, "You've had this coming for a long time," he reversed the direction of the rifle and pressed the muzzle against the spot just below Tavis' helmet.

"You do this, and there's no going back for you. You'll be a murderer, you understand that, don't you?" Damyu spoke up now, the fear plain in his voice.

"I've got no quarrel with you," Ferris responded, then a growl came into his voice, "Just _him_."

"Ferris, I'm trying to warn you-" Tavis never got to finish the statement.

Ferris was knocked from him bodily by Theran, whose sharp hearing had detected the scuffle and brought him on the run. Landing on the back of the clone he'd felled, Theran dug his back claws in, leaned forward and hissed aggressively.

The clone pinning Damyu, seeing Tavis was getting up and Ferris was now flattened, decided to back off. Damyu immediately rolled to his feet and took charge of the situation, shoving his adversary against one of the supports for the metal tower that served to extend radio range.

"Easy, Theran," Tavis said, but again he didn't get very far.

This time, Ferris had brought his whole squad into it. And they were far enough away from the tents not to attract immediate attention. Seeing the odds no longer favored them, the clones who'd been watching started to move in. They never made it, because Theran had not come alone either.

Rather than fall to mere wrestling, the soldiers of _Fortune Actual_ went on absolute offensive, drawing and leveling weapons at their adversaries, forming a protective barrier around the central conflict. Volk alone of them didn't go for a weapon, instead slamming the squad sergeant against a stack of metal supply crates with his shoulder, then using the crates as leverage to lift the other clone a few inches off the ground.

"Put me down!" the sergeant raged, "This is worse than insubordination! This is-" he was interrupted by Volk's low growl, a wordless statement that got Tavis scrambling to his feet.

"Volk, stop it. I'm not worth-"

"Shut up, Tavis," Volk snarled, flashing a glare at Tavis over his shoulder.

The blatant disobedience caused a ripple through the squad. Tavis had won Volk's absolute loyalty, but evidently somewhere along the line he had lost control. Tavis grabbed onto Volk, who shook him off without letting go of the sergeant; actually knocking Tavis back with an elbow.

"Enough!" Rafe was either the last to arrive, or had merely been waiting for his opportunity, "Put the sergeant down, _Corporal_ Volk," he stressed the rank before the name.

Volk growled again, but slowly obeyed. He had not been commanded to release the sergeant, and so continued to hold him against the crates. The desire to tear the man apart warred with the need to obey the demand of his master. The collar of restraint placed around his neck elicited another growl, but he stayed as Rafe had ordered.

"Let the man up," Rafe looked to Caden, who passed the command to Theran.

Snapping his jaws on the air just in back of Ferris' head, Theran obediently backed off. The rest of _Fortune_ did not holster their weapons, but they did point the muzzles down or up, rather than at the clones in front of them. They did not break their protective formation, nor did Rafe asked them to.

"You're responsible for these men!" the sergeant Volk had pinned practically shouted, "Rafe, I'm going to report all of this. You're men are dangerously out of control, and it's time they were stopped."

In a breath, Rafe closed the gap between them, brushing Volk out of his way.

"You get _one_ , Sergeant," Rafe hissed through his teeth, "Just one. Now, pass this along to whoever you like, because the next time a man lays hands on one of mine, I'm going to turn these men loose. And then you'll know what out of control _really_ looks like."

"A threat, Rafe?" the sergeant spat, "For this one?" he nodded contemptuously toward Tavis, which provoked another growl from Volk, who was stayed only because Rafe was in his way.

"A promise," Rafe said, "Look, I'm going to explain this only once, so listen up: I am responsible for what these men do _and_ for what happens to them. If and when the time comes to put any of them down, I'll be the one to do it, not you or anyone like you. So get this through your thick skull: Corporal Tavis belongs to _me_. If I wanted him dead, he would be dead. He is not yours to kill," Rafe nodded towards Ferris, "If that one ever touches Tavis again, my men have standing orders to shoot him in the head. If any of your men interfere with any of mine, I will hold you personally responsible. I will come after you, and there will be no chain of command holding me."

"What's going on here!?" Lt. Oscar had somehow overheard something, and come to investigate.

He was not alone. A bunch of rubberneckers had come out of the tents to see what the trouble was. Rafe nudged Volk back, then stepped away from the squad sergeant. Volk returned to the ranks of _Fortune Actual_ , while Rafe turned to face the lieutenant. When he spoke, his voice was deceptively calm.

"We had a bit of a dispute, sir," Rafe said, all respectful subservience in his manner and tone, "But it's been resolved now. We won't have any more trouble, sir, I promise."

"Risk?" Oscar turned to the squad sergeant questioningly, "Is that accurate?"

"Just a misunderstanding, LT," Sgt. Risk replied, "It's cleared up now."

He looked warily at Rafe as he stepped past him, and signaled to his men to follow him. Rafe ignored them, in favor of maintaining a position of attention towards Oscar, who was looking at him suspiciously.

At last, Oscar shrugged, "Carry on then," he said.

He had to know that there was more than Rafe and Risk had told him, but there was nothing he could do without proof. Besides which, he felt relieved that Tavis was no longer his problem. At Rafe's dismissive nod, the squad broke up. Damyu and Tavis resumed their patrol, the others went one by one back to whatever they'd been doing. Except for Volk, who came to stand beside Rafe, staring at nothing in particular as Rafe was doing now that the crowd had dispersed.

"You know that someone will eventually realize something's up, and figure out the real reason that we're not like the others and -sure as they do- they'll kill us all," Volk told him.

"I know," Rafe answered.

"What do you intend to do?" Volk asked.

Rafe turned towards Volk, but did not answer for an extended moment. The two of them were much alike, but Rafe had come to see that Volk had more fear and self-doubt beneath the surface than he let on. Tackling that sergeant, especially in front of witnesses, had not been as effortless as he'd made it seem. Vestiges of his adherence to the normal chain of command remained, as did the weight of responsibility for _Fortune_ 's fate that he'd been asked to carry for far too long.

Unlike Volk, Rafe knew he was built to carry that weight. And that the fear he felt was transitory. With each passing day, Rafe knew he was learning to be more the sergeant that _Fortune Actual_ needed, and the one it deserved. This was his home, and these men were his family. You didn't get to choose that. But Rafe knew that, in the end, it would be his choices that determined the future of the squad.

He didn't know yet what he was going to do, but he did know exactly why he would be doing it.

" _Fortune_ goes with us," Rafe began it.

"And _Actual_ survives," Volk ended it.

"That's the answer," Rafe said, then spelled it out, "Survive, Volk. I intend for us to survive."

 _Fortune Actual_ had a new mission, a new creed by which they lived, for which they fought, and which they would be willing to lay down their lives for, as incongruous as it might sound. It had nothing to do with Republic and Separatist, clone and droid, Jedi and Sith. It was something that the Grand Army of the Republic could never know about, as it could be potentially more dangerous to it than any deserter or spy. Unknowingly, that same army had just given them everything they needed to ensure that they had a decent shot at accomplishing that mission.

 _Fortune_ 's mission: Survival. At any cost.

* * *

" _The only thing you can count on is that people will do anything to survive.  
I just want to live. I don't care how."  
_-Lincoln Six-Echo _**(The Island)**_

* * *

 _ **A/N: Thank you all so much for reading, hope you enjoyed it and see you next time. Goodnight everybody.**_


End file.
